He cried to himself, resolutely:
“They shall not break my heart on the rack as they did poor Alva’s. I am a strong man, she was only a weak girl. I will never give up my heart’s love as she did, and drag out a cynical life, enjoying nothing, giving all my soul to cold, lifeless art in lieu of a broken love-dream. No, I shall marry pretty Floy, my heart’s darling, and our life shall be ideally happy.”
So he mused while pacing the steamer-deck the long starlit nights, and one day the letter was written to his mother, telling of his love, and begging for her approval.
Then he wrote to his little sweetheart—the first letter he had ever penned to her, and it was so full of his love and hope, that, had Floy received it, her heart would have thrilled for joy at the story it told—the story that blanched Maybelle’s cheek with rage, for she, according to her plans, received Floy’s letter from the postman, and ruthlessly broke the seal in the solitude of her chamber.
And how jealously her bosom throbbed, how ashen grew her cheek, as she read the burning words of love written to her innocent little rival, bonny Floy.
It seemed to her that a love so true as that expressed in those pages could never be turned aside from its object save by some fateful tragedy. Floy seemed to fill his heart to overflowing.
He left the ship at Queenstown, and posted his letters. Then, having attended to some business in Ireland, he crossed over to London to pursue his mission, counting in his heart every day and hour until he should receive answers from Floy and his mother, for he had begged them for immediate replies.
And every day he wrote again to Floy—love letters full of the tenderness that thrilled his heart.
“And so I write to you; and write, and write, and write,
For the mere sake of writing to you, dear.