When the last echo of his footstep in the hall above died away and his door had closed, the little golden head bowed low in a passionate tender prayer:
"God help me to keep my secret and yet to love and help him always!"
CHAPTER I
AN OLD PERFUME
Stuart sat in his office holding a letter from Nan which was hard to answer.
For nine years he had refused to see or speak to her. He met Bivens as a matter of course, but always down town during business hours or at one of his clubs. For the first year Nan had resented his attitude in angry pride and remained silent. And then she began to do a curious thing which had grown to be a part of his inmost life. For the past eight years she had written a brief daily diary recording her doings, thoughts and memories which she mailed to him every Sunday night. She asked no reply and he gave none. No names appeared in its story and no name was signed to the dainty sheets of paper which always bore the perfume of wild strawberries.
But the man who read them in silence knew and understood.
The letter he held to-day was not an unsigned sheet of her diary—it was a direct, personal appeal—tender and beautiful in its sincerity. She begged him to forget the past, because she needed his friendship and advice, and asked that he come to see her at once.