She opened the bag, found the letter, and read it attentively once or twice before she spoke again.
"Yes, this is really Ida's handwriting," she admitted at last. "Yet I am bound to believe her when she solemnly declares that she never wrote to Ronald after the picnic. Louie, you will let me send this note to her?"
"I don't know," I said, doubtfully. "I want Ronald to see it; I want to hear what he will say to it."
"You shall see Ronald to-morrow, my dear child, and he will set all your doubts at rest. I freely confess that this note bewilders me, but I am, at any rate, quite certain that it was never received by Ronald, nor dropped by him in William Greystock's office. Louie, did not your heart tell you that William Greystock was not a good man?"
At the recollection of that last interview with Greystock, and our parting words to each other, I was covered with confusion and shame. How had I suffered this man to influence me? Why did I let him give me that hateful letter? I saw now that I had done a great wrong in stealing away from home, without first seeking an explanation from Ronald.
"Marian," I said, "I have not done well. But I was ill and over-excited and Ronald and I had been drifting farther and farther apart before that dreadful day came. I am calmer now, clear, although I am very, very weak."
While I spoke these words the tears were fast running down my cheeks, and Marian kissed me and wept too.
"It is the old story, Louie," she said, with a sigh:
"And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny, and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness on the brain."
