"I shall not sleep to-night, Robert," said Palmer mournfully. "My poor heart is too sore;" and he placed his hand on the place where he supposed his heart to be.
"I am glad I am not old enough to have any heart troubles."
"Yes, you are fortunate. But your time will come."
Robert doubted whether he should ever be affected like Palmer, but he dropped the subject, and went home to bed.
Palmer appeared at business the next day. His face showed a mild melancholy, but there were no indications of a breaking heart.
Whenever the postman entered the office, he looked up hopefully. But there was no letter for him till three o'clock. And then it was not directed in a feminine hand. But he opened it eagerly. As he read it his face became blanched. Then he laid it down on the counter and beckoned to Robert. Mr. Gray was not in the office.
"Is the letter from her?" asked Robert.
"No, but it is about her. Read it."
Robert cast his eye over the letter. It was written in a large masculine hand. It ran thus: