Heart-sickness, a black depression, a treacherous sympathy with my assailant, pity unutterable for poor Jim, already filled, divided, and abashed my spirit.

Flight seemed the only remedy; and making a private sign to Jim, as if to ask permission, I slunk from the unequal field.
I was but a little way down the street, when I was arrested by the sound of some one running, and Jim's voice calling me by name.

He had followed me with a letter which had been long awaiting my return.
I took it in a dream.

"This has been a devil of a business," said I.
"Don't think hard of Mamie," he pleaded.

"It's the way she's made; it's her high-toned loyalty.