Not long after this Margery Conway received a letter, a poem, rather, typewritten.  There was no name signed to it, but she felt sure that it came from some one in the establishment of Marsh & Co.  More than one salesman looked at pretty Margery Conway with admiring eyes, but she never thought of any of these.  The truth was, it was sent by one of the bookkeepers, but the girl jumped at once to the conclusion that it was from Lester Armstrong.  She imagined that from the tender, sentimental words.  She read the beautiful poem over and over again, until she knew every word by heart.  The lines even floated dreamily through her brain in her sleep.  She would awaken with them on her lips.  Ah, surely, the poem was from Lester Armstrong, she fully believed.  It read as follows: 

    “What have I done that one face holds me so,
      And follows me in fancy through the day? 
    Why do I seek your love?  I only know
      That fate is resolute, and points the way
    To where you stand, bathed in amber light. 
    Since first you looked on me I’ve seen no night—­
        What have I done?

    “What can be done?  As yet no touch, no kiss;
      Only a gaze across your eyes’ blue lake. 
    Better it were, sweetheart, to dream like this,
      Than afterward to shudder and awake. 
    Love is so very bitter, and his ways
      Tortured with thorns—­with wild weeds overgrown. 
    Must I endure, unloved, these loveless days?—­
        What can be done?

    “This I say, ’Marry where your heart goes first,
      Dear heart, and then you will be blessed. 
    Ah, how can others choose for you
      What is for your best? 
    If you’re told to wed for gold,
      Dear girl, or for rank or show,
    Stand by love, and boldly say,
      “No, my heart cries no!"’”

Like most young girls, pretty Margery was sentimental.  She slept with the folded paper beneath her pillow at night, and all day long it was carefully tucked away over her beating heart.

It was quite a week after receiving this ere she saw Lester Armstrong again; then her face turned burning red.  Lester saw it, but how was he to dream that he was the cause of her emotion?

“Sweet Margery Conway is not strong,” he thought, pityingly.  “How frightened her father would be were he to see that sudden rush of blood to the head.”

He wondered whether or not he should run to her and proffer his assistance.  He had once seen a young woman who was thus affected fall to the floor in a fit, and it had been many a long day ere the unfortunate woman could return to her work again.  He devoutly hoped this might not be the case with poor, pretty Margery.

She saw him start and look at her searchingly.  She could not have stopped and exchanged a word with him if her life had depended upon it.  She hurried past him with desperate haste, praying that he might not hear the beating of her heart.