But I shied a little at the prospect, just enough to
make me put the revelation off from day to day. The more I put it off,
the more difficult it seemed--you know how the smallest matter, even the
writing of an overdue letter, grows into a huge task that way. So this
little ordeal got magnified for me, and all that winter I couldn't brace
myself to go through it. In the spring, Bagley had use for me in his
affairs, and he kept me busy night and day for two weeks. When I got
free, I was surprised to find she had left town. I hadn't the least idea
where she'd gone; till one day I received a letter from her. She wrote as
if she thought I had known where she was; she reproached me with
negligence, but was friendly nevertheless. I replied at once, clearing
myself of the charge; and in that same letter I unburdened my soul of the
bad luck secret. It was easier to write it than speak it."
"And what then?"
"Nothing. I never heard from her again."
"But your letter may have miscarried,--something of that sort."
"I made allowance for that, and wrote another letter, which I registered.
She got that all right, for the receipt came back, signed by her father.
But no answer ever came from her, and I was a bit too proud to continue a
one-sided correspondence. So ended that chapter in the harrowing history
of Murray Davenport.--She was a fine young woman, as the world judges;
she reminded me, in some ways, of Scott's heroines."
"Ah! that's why you took kindly to the old fellow by the river.
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