The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. I’m sorry. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. —D'ye hear?" Still the widow remained silent. She pointed. She would never love him as she loved Capes, of course, but there are grades and qualities of love. ” She had no way of retaliating, so she made a decision. No matter. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. Mr.
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