"Poor Frank, don't let this overcome you."
One hand reached up and clasped the soft hand that rested on his arm, but he did not lift his head, as he said brokenly:
"Tell me the worst, Constance."
"Why, Frank! the worst is told."
"But," his hand tightened its clasp, "you know more than she has told me."
"No, Frank, nothing more."
He lifted his pale face again.
"Constance—that letter."
She started and flushed.
"What letter, Frank?"
"You know," his eyes scanning her face hungrily. "Her letter. The one I brought you two days ago. What was it?"
She drew away her hand.
"It was a note of farewell, Frank. Nothing more."
"Then she told you?" he gasped,—caught his lips between his teeth, and waited for her to finish the sentence.
"She told me nothing, Frank. Oh, I wish she had."
He sp
