“I thought of it all last night, Aunt Priscilla, and all this morning, and—­I have made up my mind.”

“You mean to write—?”

“Yes.”

“To tell Mr. Cassilis that you will—­marry him?”

“Yes.”

But now Miss Priscilla rose, and, next moment, was kneeling beside Anthea’s chair.

“Oh my dear!” she pleaded, “you that I love like my own flesh and blood,—­don’t!  Oh Anthea! don’t do what can never be undone.  Don’t give your youth and beauty to one who can never—­never make you happy,—­Oh Anthea—!”

“Dear Aunt Priscilla, I would rather marry one I don’t love than have to live beholden all my days to a man that I—­hate!” Now, as she spoke, though her embrace was as ready, and her hands as gentle as ever, yet Miss Priscilla saw that her proud face was set, and stern.  So, she presently rose, sighing, and taking her little crutch stick, tapped dolefully away, and left Anthea to write her letter.

And now, hesitating no more, Anthea took up her pen, and wrote,—­surely a very short missive for a love-letter.  And, when she had folded, and sealed it, she tossed it aside, and laying her arms upon the table, hid her face, with a long, shuddering sigh.

In a little while, she rose, and taking up the letter, went out to find Adam; but remembering that he had gone to Cranbrook with Small Porges, she paused irresolute, and then turned her steps toward the orchard.  Hearing voices, she stopped again, and glancing about, espied the Sergeant, and Miss Priscilla.  She had given both her hands into the Sergeant’s one, great, solitary fist, and he was looking down at her, and she was looking up at him, and upon the face of each, was a great and shining joy.

And, seeing all this, Anthea felt herself very lonely all at once, and, turning aside, saw all things through a blur of sudden tears.  She was possessed, also, of a sudden, fierce loathing of the future, a horror because of the promise her letter contained.  Nevertheless she was firm, and resolute on her course because of the pride that burned within her.

So thus it was that as the Sergeant presently came striding along on his homeward way, he was suddenly aware of Miss Anthea standing before him; whereupon he halted, and removing his hat, wished her a “good-afternoon!”

“Sergeant,” said she, “will you do something for me?”

“Anything you ask me, Miss Anthea, mam,—­ever and always.”

“I want you to take this letter to—­Mr. Cassilis,—­will you?”

The Sergeant hesitated unwontedly, turning his hat about and about in his hand, finally he put it on, out of the way.

“Will you, Sergeant?”

“Since you ask me—­Miss Anthea mam—­I will.”

“Give it into his own hand.”

“Miss Anthea mam—­I will.”

“Thank you!—­here it is, Sergeant.”  And so she turned, and was gone, leaving the Sergeant staring down at the letter in his hand, and shaking his head over it.