The discordance of life smote hard upon me, and the letter I wrote was not pleasant.  It ran: 

To H. A. BEECHAM, Esq.,
Five-Bob Downs Station,
Gool-Gool, N.S.W.

Sir,

Your favour duly to hand.  I heartily rejoice at your good fortune, and trust you may live long and have health to enjoy it.  Do not for an instant consider yourself under any obligations to me, for you are perfectly free.  Choose some one who will reflect more credit on your taste and sense.

With all good wishes,
Faithfully yrs,
S. Penelope Melvyn.

As I closed and directed this how far away Harold Beecham seemed!  Less than two years ago I had been familiar with every curve and expression of his face, every outline of his great figure, every intonation of his strong cultivated voice; but now he seemed as the shadow of a former age.

He wrote in reply:  What did I mean?  Was it a joke—­just a little of my old tormenting spirit?  Would I explain immediately?  He couldn’t get down to see me for a fortnight at the least. .

I explained, and very tersely, that I had meant what I said, and in return received a letter as short as my own: 

Dear Miss Melvyn,

I regret your decision, but trust I have sufficient manhood to prevent me from thrusting myself upon any lady, much less you.

Your sincere friend,
Harold Augustus Beecham.

He did not demand a reason for my decision, but accepted it unquestionably.  As I read his words he grew near to me, as in the days gone by.

I closed my eyes, and before my mental vision there arose an overgrown old orchard, skirting one of the great stock-routes from Riverina to Monaro.  A glorious day was languidly smiling good night on abundance of ripe and ripening fruit and flowers.  The scent of stock and the merry cry of the tennis-players filled the air.  I could feel Harold’s wild jolting heart-beats, his burning breath on my brow, and his voice husky with rage in my ear.  As he wrote that letter I could fancy the well-cut mouth settling into a sullen line, as it had done on my birthday when, by caressing, I had won it back to its habitual pleasant expression; but on this occasion I would not be there.  He would be angry just a little while—­a man of his strength and importance could not long hold ill-will towards a woman, a girl, a child! as weak and insignificant as I. Then when I should meet him in the years to come, when he would be the faithful and loving husband of another woman, he would be a little embarrassed perhaps; but I would set him at his case, and we would laugh together re what he would term our foolish young days, and he would like me in a brotherly way.  Yes, that was how it would be.  The tiny note blackened in the flames.

So much for my romance of love!  It had ended in a bottle of smoke, as all my other dreams of life bid fair to do.

I think I was not fully aware how near I had been to loving Harold Beecham until experiencing the sense of loss which stole over me on holding in my hand the acceptance of his dismissal.  It was a something gone out of my life, which contained so few somethings, that I crushingly felt the loss of any one.