“No,” said Sara Wilkins, “that is not the right way; not for him.  It might be with a vain man.  But he doesn’t get over it.  He doesn’t stop loving you.  Only the pain is worse because he thinks you scorned him.  Mrs. May, I implore you to write him a letter.  I can’t take a message, because he mustn’t know I came to see you.  It would spoil it all for him, I think.  Write as if it were of your own accord.  Don’t explain in the letter.  Letters are such hard, unsatisfactory things.  The best one you could write wouldn’t make up to him a bit for what he’s suffered and what he must go on suffering, for you couldn’t help studying your words, and they’d be stiff and disappointing, no matter how hard you tried to say the things just right.  Ask him to come here and let you explain in your own words why you seemed so harsh.  Only, warn him that it isn’t to change your mind about—­about saying yes.  It would be awful to rush up here happy and hopeful, only to find out—­what he’ll have to find out.”

“You don’t understand,” said Angela.  “I care too much to dare see him again.  I couldn’t trust myself.  I——­”

“Ah, but you could trust him.  He’s strong and high in his nature—­like the great redwoods.”

“Yes, like the great redwoods,” Angela echoed, in a whisper.

“He’d be a rock, too—­a rock to rely upon,” Sara went on.  “Do this, Mrs. May.  Do it for my sake.  I know it’s the right thing.  It will give him back his self-respect.  That’s even more important than happiness, especially to him.  I’ve done all I could for you—­not much, but my best.  Do this for me, will you?”

“Yes, I will!” Angela answered suddenly and impulsively.  She put out her hands to the little school-teacher and drew her close.  They kissed each other, the two women who loved Nick Hilliard.

XXXII

AN END—­AND A BEGINNING

“Come to me if you can.  I can give you no hope of happiness, but there is something I should like to explain,” Angela said in her letter.

She expected an answer, though she asked for none; but no word came on the morning when she had thought that she might hear.  Other people had their letters and were reading them on the veranda, but there was nothing for her.  She sat there for a while, cold with disappointment, listening to the tearing open of envelopes and the pleasant crackle of thick letter-paper.  Then, when Timmy, the black cat, suddenly leapt off her lap, as if in a mad rush after something he fondly hoped was a mouse, Angela was glad of an excuse to follow.  But Timmy, who was of an independent character, evidently believed that he was in for a good thing.  He darted across the grass, and with a whisk of eager tail disappeared behind a clump of trees.

“A dragon-fly!” Angela said to herself.  For Timmy could not resist the fascination of dragon-flies—­a bright and beautiful kind that spent the summer at Lake Tahoe.  She followed round the clump of trees, and there was Nick Hilliard coming toward her with Timmy in his arms.