"Is it possible you mean that you wished me there?"

"Quite possible; only it would have been ever so much better had I

known before. It actually seemed when I saw your face to-night as if

God had brought you--it was like a miracle. Do you know why? Because,

for the first time in three years, I can welcome you with all my heart."

"Beth, Beth," utterly forgetting everything but the mystery of her

words, his gray eyes darkening from eagerness, "what is it you mean?

For God's sake tell me! These years have been centuries; through them

all I have been waiting your word."

She drew in her breath sharply, reaching out one hand to grasp the back

of a chair.

"It--it could not be spoken," she said, her voice faltering. "Not

until to-day was it possible for me to break the silence."

"And now--to-day?"

She smiled suddenly up at him, her eyes filled with promise.

"God has been good," she whispered, drawing from within the lace of her

waist a crumpled envelope,--"oh, so good, even when I doubted Him.

See, I have kept this hidden there every moment since it first came,

even on the stage in my changes of costume. I dared not part with it

for a single instant--it was far too precious." She sank back upon the

chair, holding out toward him the paper. "Read that yourself, if my

tears have not made the lines illegible."

He took it from her, his hands trembling, and drew forth the enclosure,

a single sheet of rough yellow paper. Once he paused, glancing toward

where she sat, her face buried in her arms across the chair-back. Then

he smoothed out the wrinkles, and read slowly, studying over each

pencil-written, ill-spelled word, every crease and stain leaving an

impression upon his brain: "SAN JUAN, COL., DEC. 12, 1904.

"Deer Miss: I see your name agin in a Denver paper what Bill brought

out frum town ternight, an read thar that you wus goin ter play a piece

in Chicago. I aint seen yer name in ther papers afore fer a long time.

So I thot I 'd write yer a line, cause Bill thinks yer never got it

straight bout ther way Biff Farnham died. He ses thet you an Mister

Winston hes got ther whol affair all mixed up, an that maybe it's a

keepin ther two of yer sorter sore on each other. Now, I dont wanter

butt in none in yer affairs, an then agin it aint overly plisent fer me

to make a clean breast ov it this way on paper. Not that I 'm afeard,

er nothin, only it dont just look nice. No more do I want enything

whut I did ter be makin you fokes a heep o trouble. That aint my

style. I reckon I must a bin plum crazy whin I did it, fer I wus

mighty nigh that fer six months after--et least Bill ses so. But it

wus me all right whut killed Farnham. It wan't no murder es I see it,

tho I was huntin him all right, fer he saw me furst, an hed his gun

out, when I let drive. Enyhow, he got whut wus comin ter him, an I

aint got no regrets. We're a doin all right out yere now, me an

Bill--ther claim is payin big, but I never aint got over thinkin bout

Mercedes. I shore loved her, an I do yit. You was awful good to her,

an I reckon she 'd sorter want me to tell you jist how it wus. Hopin

this will clar up som ov them troubles between you an Mister Winston, I

am Yours with respects, "WILLIAM BROWN."




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