deliberation。　　It　contained　a　manuscript　and　a　letter　of　four
  closely　written　pages。　　She　glanced　at　the　manuscript　with　bright
  approving　eyes；　ran　her　fingers　through　its　leaves　and　then　laid　it
  carefully　and　somewhat　ostentatiously　on　the　table　beside　her。
  Then；　still　holding　the　letter　in　her　hand；　she　rose　and　glanced
  out　of　the　window　at　her　bored　brother　lounging　towards　the　beach
  and　at　the　heaving　billows　beyond；　and　returned　to　her　seat。　　This
  apparently　important　preliminary　concluded；　she　began　to　read。
  There　were；　as　already　stated；　four　blessed　pages　of　it！　　All
  vital；　earnest；　palpitating　with　youthful　energy；　preposterous　in
  premises；　precipitate　in　conclusions；yet　irresistible　and
  convincing　to　every　woman　in　their　illogical　sincerity。　　There　was
  not　a　word　of　love　in　it；　yet　every　page　breathed　a　wholesome
  adoration；　there　was　not　an　epithet　or　expression　that　a　greater
  prude　than　Mrs。　Ashwood　would　have　objected　to；　yet　every　sentence
  seemed　to　end　in　a　caress。　　There　was　not　a　line　of　poetry　in　it；
  and　scarcely　a　figure　or　simile；　and　yet　it　was　poetical。　　Boyishly
  egotistic　as　it　was　in　attitude；　it　seemed　to　be　written　less　OF
  himself　than　TO　her；　in　its　delicate　because　unconscious　flattery；
  it　made　her　at　once　the　provocation　and　excuse。　　And　yet　so　potent
  was　its　individuality　that　it　required　no　signature。　　No　one　but
  John　Milton　Harcourt　could　have　written　it。　　His　personality　stood
  out　of　it　so　strongly　that　once　or　twice　Mrs。　Ashwood　almost
  unconsciously　put　up　her　little　hand　before　her　face　with　a　half
  mischievous；　half…deprecating　smile；　as　if　the　big　honest　eyes　of
  its　writer　were　upon　her。
  It　began　by　an　elaborate　apology　for　declining　the　appointment
  offered　him　by　one　of　her　friends；　which　he　was　bold　enough　to
  think　had　been　prompted　by　her　kind　heart。　　That　was　like　her；　but
  yet　what　she　might　do　to　any　one；　and　he　preferred　to　think　of　her
  as　the　sweet　and　gentle　lady　who　had　recognized　his　merit　without
  knowing　him；　rather　than　the　powerful　and　gracious　benefactress　who
  wanted　to　reward　him　when　she　did　know　him。　　The　crown　that　she　had
  all　unconsciously　placed　upon　his　head　that　afternoon　at　the　little
  hotel　at　Crystal　Spring　was　more　to　him　than　the　Senator's
  appointment；　perhaps　he　was　selfish；　but　he　could　not　bear　that　she
  who　had　given　so　much　should　believe　that　he　could　accept　a　lesser
  gift。　　All　this　and　much　more！　　Some　of　it　he　had　wanted　to　say　to
  her　in　San　Francisco　at　times　when　they　had　met；　but　he　could　not
  find　the　words。　　But　she　had　given　him　the　courage　to　go　on　and　do
  the　only　thing　he　was　fit　for；　and　he　had　resolved　to　stick　to
  that；　and　perhaps　do　something　once　more　that　might　make　him　hear
  again　her　voice　as　he　had　heard　it　that　day；　and　again　see　the
  light　that　had　shone　in　her　eyes　as　she　sat　there　and　read。　　And
  this　was　why　he　was　sending　her　a　manuscript。　　She　might　have
  forgotten　that　she　had　told　him　a　strange　story　of　her　cousin　who
  had　disappearedwhich　she　thought　he　might　at　some　time　work　up。
  Here　it　was。　　Perhaps　she　might　not　recognize　it　again；　in　the　way
  he　had　written　it　here；　perhaps　she　did　not　really　mean　it　when　she
  had　given　him　permission　to　use　it；　but　he　remembered　her　truthful
  eyes　and　believed　herand　in　any　event　it　was　hers　to　do　with　what
  she　liked。　　It　had　been　a　great　pleasure　for　him　to　write　it　and
  think　that　she　would　see　it；　it　was　like　seeing　her　himselfthat
  was　in　HIS　BETTER　SELFmore　worthy　the　companionship　of　a
  beautiful　and　noble　woman　than　the　poor　young　man　she　would　have
  helped。　　This　was　why　he　had　not　called　the　week　before　she　went
  away。　　But　for　all　that；　she　had　made　his　life　less　lonely；　and　he
  should　be　ever　grateful　to　her。　　He　could　never　forget　how　she
  unconsciously　sympathized　with　him　that　day　over　the　loss　that　had
  blighted　his　life　forever；yet　even　then　he　did　not　know　that　she；
  herself；　had　passed　through　the　same　suffering。　　But　just　here　the
  stricken　widow　of　thirty；　after　a　vain　attempt　to　keep　up　the
  knitted　gravity　of　her　eyebrows；　bowed　her　dimpling　face　over　the
  letter　of　the　blighted　widower　of　twenty；　and　laughed　so　long　and
  silently　that　the　tears　stood　out　like　dew　on　her　light…brown
  eyelashes。
  But　she　became　presently　severe　again；　and　finished　her　reading　of
  the　letter　gravely。　　Then　she　folded　it　carefully；　deposited　it　in
  a　box　on　her　table；　which　she　locked。　　After　a　few　minutes；
  however；　she　unlocked　the　box　again　and　transferred　the　letter　to
  her　pocket。　　The　serenity　of　her　features　did　not　relax　again；
  although　her　previous　pretty　prepossession　of　youthful　spirit　was
  still　indicated　in　her　movements。　　Going　into　her　bedroom；　she
  reappeared　in　a　few　minutes　with　a　light　cloak　thrown　over　her
  shoulders　and　a　white…trimmed　broad…brimmed　hat。　　Then　she　rolled
  up　the　manuscript　in　a　paper；　and　called　her　French　maid。　　As　she
  stood　there　awaiting　her　with　the　roll　in　her　hand；　she　might　have
  been　some　young　girl　on　her　way　to　her　music　lesson。
  〃If　my　brother　returns　before　I　do；　tell　him　to　wait。〃
  〃Madame　is　going〃
  〃Out；〃　said　Mrs。　Ashwood　blithely；　and　tripped　downstairs。
  She　made　her　way　directly　to　the　shore　where　she　remembered　there
  was　a　group　of　rocks　affording　a　shelter　from　the　northwest　trade
  winds。　　It　was　reached　at　low　water　by　a　narrow　ridge　of　sand；　and
  here　she　had　often　basked　in　the　sun　with　her　book。　　It　was　here
  that　she　now　unrolled　John　Milton's　manuscript　and　read。
  It　was　the　story　she　had　told　him；　but　interpreted　by　his　poetry
  and　adorned　by　his　fancy　until　the　facts　as　she　remembered　them
  seemed　to　be　no　longer　hers；　or　indeed　truths　at　all。　　She　had
  always　believed　her　cousin's　unhappy　temperament　to　have　been　the
  result　of　a　moral　and　physical　idiosyncrasy；she　found　it　here　to
  be　the　effect　of　a　lifelong　and　hopeless　passion　for　herself！　　The
  ingenious　John　Milton　had　given　a　poet's　precocity　to　the　youth
  whom　she　had　only　known　as　a　suspicious；　moody　boy；　had　idealized
  him　as　a　sensitive　but　songless　Byron；　had　given　him　the　added
  infirmity　of　pulmonary　weakness；　and　a　handkerchief　that　in　moments
  of　great　excitement；　after　having　been　hurriedly　pressed　to　his
  pale　lips；　was　withdrawn　〃with　a　crimson　stain。〃　　Opposed　to　this
  interesting　figurethe　more　striking　to　her　as　she　had　been
  hitherto　haunted　by　the　impression　that　her　cousin　during　his
  boyhood　had　been　subject　to　facial　eruption　and　boilswas　her　own
  equally　idealized　self。　　Cruelly　kind　to　her　cousin　and　gentle　with
  his　weaknesses　while　calmly　ignoring　their　cause；　leading　him
  unconsciously　step　by　step　in　his　fatal　passion；　he　only　became
  aware　by　accident　that　she　nourished　an　ideal　hero　in　the　person　of
  a　hard；　proud；　middle…aged　practical　man　of　the　world；her　future
  husband！　　At　this　picture　of　the　late　Mr。　Ashwood；　who　had　really
  been　an　indistinctive　social　bon　vivant；　his　amiable　relict　grew
  somewhat　hysterical。　　The　discovery　of　her　real　feelings　drove　the
  consumptive　cousin　into　a　secret；　self…imposed　exile　on　the　shores
  of　the　Pacific；　where　he　hoped　to　find　a　grave。　　But　the　complete
  and　sudden　change　of　life　and　scene；　the　balm　of　the　wild　woods　and
  the　wholesome　barbarism　of　nature；　wrought　a　magical　change　in　his
  physical　health　and　a　philosophical　rest　in　his　mind。　　He　married
  the　daughter　of　an　Indian　chief。　　Years　passed；　the　heroinea　rich
  and　still　young　and　beautiful　widowunwittingly　sought　the　same
  medicinal　solitude。　　Here　in　the　depth　of　the　forest　she　encountered
  her　former　playmate；　the　passion　which　he　had　fondly　supposed　was
  dead　revived　in　her　presence；　and　for　the　first　time　she　learned
  from　his　bearded　lips　the　secret　of　his　passion。　　Alas！　not　SHE
  alone！　　The　contiguous　forest　could　not　be　bolted　out；　and　the
  Indian　wife　heard　all。　　Recognizing　the　situation　with　aboriginal
  directness　of　purpose；　she　committed　suicide　in　the　fond　belief　that
  it　would　reunite　the　survivors。　　But　in　vain；　the　cousins　parted　on
  the　spot　to　meet　no　more。
  Even　Mrs。　Ashwood's　predilection　for　the　youthful　writer　could　not
  overlook　the　fact　that　the　denouement　was　by　no　means　novel　nor　the
  situation　human；　but　yet　it　was　here　that　she　was　most　interested
  and　fascinated。　　The　description　of　the　forest　was　a　description
  of　the　wood　where　she　had　first　met　Harcourt；　the　charm　of　it
  returned；　until　she　almost　seemed　to　again　inhale　its　balsamic
  freshness　in　the　pages　before　her。　　Now；　as　then；　her　youth　came
  back　with　the　same　longing　and　regret。　　But　more　bewildering　than
  all；　it　was　herself　that　moved　there；　painted　with　the　loving　hand
  of　the　narrator。　　For　the　first　time　she　experienced　the　delicious
  flattery　of　seeing　herself　as　only　a　lover　could　see　her。　　The
  smallest　detail　of　her　costume　was　suggested　with　an　accuracy　that
  pleasantly　thrilled　her　feminine　sense。　　The　grace　of　her　figure
  slowly　moving　through　the　shadow；　the　curves　of　her　arm　and　the
  delicacy　of