It was Fannie Lemick that took her home.  She only knew that she was being led away, while crashing through her mind went flames, smoke, the throbbing of the engines, and the words:  “I may never see you again ... dead girls....”  All that night she tossed about in a horror, and in the morning she feverishly read the terrible news until she thought she must swoon away.  She became sick; the landlady had to come up and help her; the doctor had to be sent for, and he had told her that this nervous breakdown had been long overdue; she had been working under too great a strain; it only needed some shock to break her.

But while she lay in a sick fever her heart went out to Joe.  If she only could be at his side, nerve him to the fight, protect him and soothe him.  She knew that his whole old life had been consumed in that fire, and lay in ruins, and she felt subtly that he had been taken from her.  By one blow, at the very moment of the miracle of their love, they had been torn from each other.  She did not want to live; she hoped that she had some serious disease that would kill her.

But she did live; she became better, and then in a mood of passionate tenderness she wrote her first little love-letter to Joe.  She went about, doing her school-work and bearing the weight of intolerable lonely days, and he had written twice, just a word to her, a word of delay.  What kept him?  What was he doing?  She read of his testimony at the inquest and became indignant because he blamed himself.  Who was to blame for such an accident?  It was not his cigarette that had started the blaze.  In her overwrought condition she passed from a terrible love to a sharp hate, and back and forth.  Was he a fool or was he more noble than she could fathom?  He should have seen her sooner, he should not have left her a prey to her morbid thoughts.  Time and again she became convinced that he had ceased to love her, that he was more concerned over his burnt printery.  She twisted his letters against him.  She would sit in her room trying to work at her school papers, and suddenly she would clench her fists, turn pale, and stare despairingly at the blank wall.

Day after day she waited, starting up every time she heard the postman’s whistle and the ringing of the bell.  And then at last one night, as she paced up and down the narrow white little room, she heard the landlady climbing the stairs, advancing along the hall, and there was a sharp rap.  She felt faint and dizzy, flung open the door, took the letter, and sank down on the bed, hardly daring to open it.

It was brief and cold: 

Dear Myra,—­I know you are up early, so I am coming around at seven to-morrow morning—­I’ll be out in the street and wait for you.  We can go to the Park.  I have some serious problems to lay before you.

  Joe.