She was mistaken; the janitor was holding out a note to her.
"In case ye found it onconvaynient f'r to see Misther Landon, I was to projooce the letter, Miss."
She took it; a shiver passed over her.
When the old man had shambled off down the passage she reëntered her room, held the envelope a moment close under the lighted lamp, then nervously tore it wide.
"You will read this in case you refuse to say good-by to me. But I only wanted to offer you a little gift at Christmastide—not in reparation, for I meant no injury—but in deepest respect for you. And so I ask you once more to wait for me. Will you?"
Minute after minute she sat there, dumb, confused, nerves at the breaking point, her heart and soul crying out for him. Then the memory of what was awaiting him in his studio choked her with fright. She sprang to her feet, and at the same moment the outer gate clanged.
Terror froze her; then she remembered that it was too early for him; it must be the expressman for her trunk. And she went to the door and opened it.
"Oh-h!" she breathed, shrinking back; but Landon had seen his letter in her hand, and he followed her into the room.
He was paler than she: his voice was failing him, too, as he laid his gift on the bare table—only a little book, prettily bound.
"Will you take it?" he asked in a colorless voice; but she could not answer, could not move.