“But I am very sure that I could show my gratitude in no more welcome manner than by doing what I have done this morning and by expressing that obligation to you in writing.

“Before I close may I ask you to believe that I had no intention of seeking shelter at your house?  Until I heard Mr. Neville’s voice I had no idea where I was.  I merely made my way toward the first lighted windows that I saw, never dreaming that I had come to Ashuelyn.

“I am sorry that my stupid misadventure has caused you and your family so much trouble and annoyance.  I feel it very keenly—­more keenly because of your kindness in making the best of what must have been to you and your family a most disagreeable episode.

“May I venture to express to you my thanks to Miss Swift who so generously remained in my room last night?  I am deeply sensible of her sweetness to an unwelcome stranger—­and of Mrs. Neville’s gentle manner toward one who, I am afraid, has caused her much anxiety.

“To the very amiable physician who did so much to calm a foolish and inexcusable nervousness, I am genuinely grateful.  If I knew his name and address I would write and properly acknowledge my debt.

“There is one thing more before I close:  I am sorry that I wrote you so ungraciously after receiving your last letter.  It would have been perfectly easy to have thanked you courteously, whatever private opinion I may have entertained concerning a matter about which there may be more than my own opinion.

“And now, please believe that I will never again voluntarily cause you and your family the slightest uneasiness or inconvenience; and believe me, too, if you care to.  Very gratefully yours,

“VALERIE WEST.”

She directed and sealed the letter, then drew toward her another sheet of paper: 

“DEAREST:  I could die of shame for having blundered into your family circle.  I dare not even consider what they must think of me now. You will know how innocently and unsuspiciously it was done—­how utterly impossible it would have been for me to have voluntarily committed such an act even in the last extremity.  But what they will think of my appearance at your door last night, I don’t know and I dare not surmise.  I have done all I could; I have rid them of me, and I have written to your sister to thank her and your family for their very real kindness to the last woman in the world whom they would have willingly chosen to receive and entertain.

“Dear, I didn’t know I had nerves; but this experience seems to have developed them.  I am perfectly well, but the country here has become distasteful to me, and I am going to town in a few minutes.  I want to get away—­I want to go back to my work—­earn my living again—­live in blessed self-respect where, as a worker, I have the right to live.

“Dearest, I am sorry about not meeting you at the station and going back to town with you.  But I simply cannot endure staying here after last night.  I suppose it is weak and silly of me, but I feel now as though your family would never be perfectly tranquil again until I am out of their immediate vicinity.  I cannot convey to you or to them how sorry and how distressed I am that this thing has occurred.