“‘Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.’
And mine will not alter. J. R. E.”
“My dear,” said Alice very humbly, “I beg your pardon. I have misjudged you. Will you forgive me?”
Josie came to take her letter, and, in lieu of other answer, stood with her arm about Alice’s waist.
“And now,” said Alice, “have you no other confidences for us?”
“No!” she cried, “no! there is nothing more! Nothing, absolutely nothing, believe me! But, now, confidence for confidence, Albert, what is this great danger? Is it anything for which any one here—for which I am to blame? Does it threaten any one else? Can’t something be done about it? Tell me, tell me!”
“I think,” said I, “that the letter was written before my telegram from New York came, and after—some great difficulties came upon us. I don’t believe he would have written it five hours later; and I don’t believe he would have written it to any one in anything but the depression of—the feeling he has for you.”
“If that is true,” said she, “why does he still avoid me? Why does he still avoid me? You have not told me all; or there is something you do not know.”
As we went home, Alice kept referring to Jim’s letter, and was as much troubled by it as was Josie.
“How do you explain it?” she asked.
“I explain it,” said I, “by ranging it with the well-known phenomenon of the love-sick youth of all lands and in every time, who revels in the thought of incurring danger or death, and heralding the fact to his loved one. Even Jim is not exempt from the feelings of the boy who rejoices in delicious tears at the thought of being found cold and dead on the doorstep of the cruel maiden of his dreams. And that letter, with a slight substratum of fact, is the result. Don’t bother about it for a moment.”