Marcella moved across the whiteness of the grass; her voice was still speaking to his inward ear.

His lips smiled; his heart was in a wild whirl of happiness.
Then he walked to the table, took up his letter, read it, tore it across, and locked the fragments in a drawer.
"Not yet, Ned--not yet, dear old fellow, even to you," he said to himself, as he put out his lamp..