Sanderson could not destroy it.  He had already offended Mary Bransford more than he had a right to, and to destroy her brother’s letter would be positively heinous.

Besides, unknown to him, there might be more letters about with Will Bransford’s signature on them, and it might be well to preserve this particular letter in case he should be called upon to forge Will Bransford’s signature.

So he retied the letters in the packet and restored the packet to its place, retaining his own letter to Bransford.  Smiling grimly now, he again sought the chair near the window, lit a match, applied the blaze to the letter, and watched the paper burn until nothing remained of it but a crinkly ash.  Then he smoked a cigarette and got into bed, feeling more secure.

Determined not to submit to any more of Mary’s caresses, and feeling infinitely small and mean over the realization that he had already permitted her to carry her affection too far, he frowned at her when he went into the kitchen after washing the next morning, gruffly replying when she wished him a cheery, “Good morning,” and grasping her arms when she attempted to kiss him.

He blushed, though, when her eyes reproached him.

“I ain’t used to bein’ mushed over,” he told her.  “We’ll get along a heap better if you cut out the kissin’.”

“Why, Will!” she said, her lips trembling.

She set them though, instantly, and went about her duties, leaving Sanderson to stand in the center of the room feeling like a brute.

They breakfasted in silence—­almost.  Sanderson saw her watching him—­covert glances that held not a little wonder and disappointment.  And then, when the meal was nearly finished, she looked at him with a taunting half-smile.

“Didn’t you sleep good, Will?”

Sanderson looked fairly at her.  That “Will” was already an irritation to him, for it continually reminded him of the despicable part he was playing.  He knew what he was going to say would hurt her, but he was determined to erect between them a barrier that would prevent a repetition of any demonstrations of affection of the brother and sister variety.

He didn’t want to let her continue to show affection for him when he knew that, if she knew who he really was, she would feel more tike murdering him.

“Look here, Mary,” he said, coldly, “I’ve never cared a heap for the name Bransford.  That’s why I changed my name to Sanderson.  I never liked to be called ‘Will.’  Hereafter I want you to call me Sanderson—­Deal Sanderson.  Then mebbe I’ll feel more like myself.”

She did not answer, but her lips straightened and she sat very rigid.  It was plain to him that she was very much disappointed in him, and that in her mind was the contrast between her brother of today and her brother of yesterday.

She got up after a time, holding her head high, and left the room, saying as she went out: