All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. “I do not understand. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. Concealed among the trees that edged the estate grounds, the watchers paused. She will tell you all the story while I am gone. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. "But trifle with mo no longer.
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