I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write.  Never mention marriage to me again.  I have firmly made up my mind—­it must be No.  It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know that I was loved once, if only for a few hours.  It is not that I do not care for you, as I like you better than any man I have ever seen; but I do not mean ever to marry.  When you lost your fortune I was willing to accede to your request, as I thought you wanted me; but now that you are rich again you will not need me.  I am not good enough to be your wife,’for you are a good man; and better, because you do not know you are good.  You may feel uncomfortable or lonely for a little while, because, when you make up your mind, you are not easily thwarted; but you will find that your fancy for me will soon pass.  It is only a fancy, Hal.  Take a look in the glass, and you will see reflected there the figure of a stalwart man who is purely virile, possessing not the slightest attribute of the weaker sex, therefore your love is merely a passing flame.  I do not impute fickleness to you, but merely point out a masculine characteristic, and that you are a man, and only a man, pure and unadulterated.  Look around, and from the numbers of good women to be found on every side choose one who will make you a fitter helpmeet, a more conventional comrade, than I could ever do.  I thank you for the inestimable honour you have conferred upon me; but keep it till you find some one worthy of it, and by and by you will be glad that I have set you free.

Good-bye, Hal!

Your sincere and affec. friend,
Sybylla Penelope Melvyn.

Then I crept into bed beside my little sister, and though the air inside had not cooled, and the room was warm, I shivered so that I clasped the chubby, golden-haired little sleeper in my arms that I might feel something living and real and warm.

“Oh, Rory, Rory!” I whispered, raining upon her lonely-hearted tears.  “In all the world is there never a comrade strong and true to teach me the meaning of this hollow, grim little tragedy—­life?  Will it always be this ghastly aloneness?  Why am I not good and pretty and simple like other girls?  Oh, Rory, Rory, why was I ever born?  I am of no use or pleasure to any one in all the world!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

He that despiseth little things, shall fall little by little

I

The morning came, breakfast, next Harold’s departure.  I shook my head and slipped the note into his hand as we parted.  He rode slowly down the road.  I sat on the step of the garden gate, buried my face in my hands, and reviewed the situation.  I could see my life, stretching out ahead of me, barren and monotonous as the thirsty track along which Harold was disappearing.  Today it was washing, ironing tomorrow, next day baking, after that scrubbing—­thus