After a time I pulled out the letter Mr. Barnett had handed me. It was
from that young rascal Harry Lawrence. He says he's heard from you about
that caribou shooting, and wants to come up anyway and find out how I
look after my tough summer in this neck of the woods, and he's never
been to Newfoundland anyway, etc., etc.

Of course that boy cares as much for my looks as for those of the
Egyptian Sphinx. At one time I really hoped that Helen and he, since she
would have to leave me some day, might grow fond of one another. I know
how devoted he is to my girl, but I'm afraid she has made her own choice.
I must write to Harry that we shall be leaving before long and that it
will be too late for him to come now,--as, indeed, it is. What puzzles me
is that, on his own part, that doctor never has seemed to be anything but
a good friend to Helen. I suppose I was an old fool, and never saw things
that went on under my nose. Poor Harry, he's such a splendid lad, and his
father was my dearest friend, as you know.

Helen has been gone for hours, and I'm going to send Susie after her. In
the meanwhile I have sought to possess my soul in patience by writing
to you.

Affectionately yours,
WALTER




CHAPTER XVIII