He sat down to his table, and wrote the following note: 

“My Dear Miss March: 

“I have been waiting for a good many days, hoping to receive, either from you or Mr Keswick, an explanation of the message you sent to me by him.  I now believe that it will be impossible to give a satisfactory explanation of that message.  I therefore recur to our last private interview, and wish to say to you that I am ready, at any time, to meet you under either a sycamore or a cherry tree.”

And then he signed it, and addressed it to Miss March at Midbranch.  This being done, he put on his hat, and stepped out to see if a messenger could be found to carry the letter to its destination, for he did not wish to wait for the semi-weekly mail.  Near the house he met Annie.

“What have you been doing all this time?” she asked.

“I have been writing a letter,” he said, “and am now looking for some colored boy who will carry it for me.”

“Who is it to?” she asked.

“Miss March,” was his answer.

“Let me see it,” said Annie.

At this, Lawrence looked at her with wide-open eyes, and then he laughed.  Never, since he had been a child, had there been any one who would have thought of such a thing as asking to see a private letter which he had written to some one else; and that this young girl should stand up before him with her straightforward expectant gaze and make such a request of him, in the first instance, amused him.

“You don’t mean to say,” she added, “that you would write anything to Miss March which you would not let me see.”

“This letter,” said Lawrence, “was written for Miss March, and no one else.  It is simply the winding up of that old affair.”

“Give it to me,” said Annie, “and let me see how you wound it up.”

Lawrence smiled, looked at her in silence for a moment, and then handed her the letter.

“I don’t want you to think,” she said, as she took it, “that I am going to ask you to show me all the letters you write.  But when you write one to a lady like Miss March, I want to know what you say to her.”  And then she read the letter.  When she had finished, she turned to Lawrence, and with her countenance full of amazement, exclaimed:  “I haven’t the least idea in the world what all this means!  What message did she send you?  And why should you meet her under a tree?”

These questions went so straight to the core of the affair, and were so peculiarly difficult to answer, that Lawrence, for the moment, found himself in the very unusual position of not knowing what to say, but he presently remarked:  “Do you think it is of any advantage to either of us to talk over this affair, which is now past and gone?”

“I don’t want to talk over any of it,” said Annie, very promptly, “except the part of it which is referred to in this letter; but I want to know about that.”

“That covers the most important part of it,” said Lawrence.