She put her pen down and buried her face in her arms folded on his desk; she couldn’t seem to write that word of three letters which she had supposed summed up the tragedy, begun on that June day in the field and ending, she told herself, on this March day, in the same place.  So, by and by, instead of writing “old,” she wrote

“a poor housekeeper.”

Then she pondered on how she should sign the letter, and after a while she wrote: 

“STAR.”

She looked at the radiant word, and then kissed it.  By and by she got up—­with difficulty, for she had sat there so long that she was stiff in every joint—­and going to her own desk, she hunted about in it for that little envelope, which, for nearly twelve of the fifty golden years which were to find them in “their field,” had held the circle of braided grass.  When she opened it, and slid the ring out into the palm of her hand it crumbled into dust.  She debated putting it back into the envelope and inclosing it in her letter?  But a rush of tenderness for Maurice made her say:  “No!  It might hurt him.”  So she dropped it down behind the logs in the fireplace.  “When the fire is lighted it will burn up.”  Lily’s scented handkerchief had turned to ashes there, too.  Then she folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, sealed it, addressed it, and put it in her desk.  “He’ll find it,” she thought, “afterward.”  Find it,—­and know how much she loved him!—­the words were like wine to her.  Then she looked at the clock and was startled to see that it was five.  She must hurry!  He might come home and stop her!...

She was perfectly calm; she put on her coat and hat and opened the front door; then saw the gleam of lights on the wet pavement and felt the March drizzle in her face; she reflected that it would be very wet in the meadow, and went back for her rubbers.

When the car came banging cheerfully along, she boarded it and sat so that she would be able to see Lily’s house.  “She’s getting his supper,” Eleanor thought; “dear little Jacky!  Well, he will be having his supper with Maurice pretty soon!  I wonder how she’ll get along with Mary?  Mary will call her ‘Mrs. Curtis,’ Mary would leave in a minute if she knew what kind of a person ‘Mrs. Curtis’ was!” She smiled at that; it pleased her.  “But she mustn’t call him ‘Maurice,’” she thought; “I won’t permit that!”

The car stopped, and all the other passengers got out.  Eleanor vaguely watched the conductor pull the trolley pole round for the return trip; then she rose hurriedly.  As she started along the road toward the meadow she thought.  “I can walk into the water; I never could jump in!  But it will be easy to wade in.”  That made her think of the picnic, and the wading, and how Maurice had tied Edith’s shoestrings; and with that came a surge of triumph.  “When he reads my letter, and knows how much I love him, he’ll forget her.  And when she hears he has married Lily, she’ll stop making love to him by getting him to tie her shoestrings!”