“That last year things began to come my way.  Adela married a fine young fellow, wealthy and generous.  My mother went to live with them in their western home, Calgary, where they still are.  Then Thomas Callandar, my mother’s brother, who had never bothered about any of us living, died, and left me a handsome property, adding, as you already know, the condition that I take the family name.  You remember that my father’s name, the name under which I married Molly, was Chedridge.

“Nothing now held me from Molly—­in another month I would have my degree, and free and rich I could go to claim her.  It seemed like a fairy tale!  In my great happiness I broke my promise and wrote to her, to the California address, hoping to catch her there.  In three weeks’ time the letter came back from the dead letter office.  I wrote again, this time to the Cleveland address, a short note only, telling her I was free at last.  Then, next day, I followed the letter to Cleveland, wealth in one hand, the assurance of an honourable degree in the other.

“I had no trouble in finding the house.  It was one of a row of houses, nondescript but comfortable, in a pleasant street.  It seemed familiar—­I had seen Molly’s snapshots of it often.  I cannot tell you what it felt like to be really there—­to walk down the street, up the path, up the steps to the veranda.  I was trembling as with ague, I was chalk-white I knew—­was I not in another moment to see my wife!

“I could hear the electric bell tingle somewhere inside.  Then an awful pause.  What if they were not at home?  What if they lived there no longer?  I knew with a pang of fear that I could not bear another disappointment.

“There was a sound in the hall, the door knob moved—­the door opened.  I gasped in the greatness of my relief for the face in the opening was undoubtedly the face of Molly’s mother.  They were at home.  They must have had my letter—­they must be expecting me—­

“Something in the woman’s face daunted me.  It was deathly and strained.  Surely she did not intend to continue her opposition?  Yet it confused me.  I forgot all that I had intended to say, I stammered: 

“’I am Henry Chedridge.  I want to see Molly.  I am rich, I have my degree—­’

“‘You cannot see her!’ she said.  Just that!  The door began to close.  But I had myself in hand now.  I laid hold of the door and spoke in a different tone.  The tone of a master.

“’This is foolish, Mrs. Weston.  I thought you understood.  I can and I will see your daughter.  Molly is my wife!’

“She gave way at that.  The door opened wide, showing a long empty hall.  The woman stood aside, made no effort to stop me, but looking me in the eyes she said:  ’You come too late.  Your wife is not here.  Molly is dead!’

“Then, in one second, it seemed that all the years of overwork, of mental strain and bodily deprivation rose up and took their due.  I tried to speak, stuttered foolishly, and fell like dead over the door-sill of the house I was never to enter.