Nevertheless, not my will but Thine!”

Somewhat refreshed from contact with his God, John sat up and read over his letter. After due deliberation he decided to send it. It was all true, and it was her due after what had passed. But there was a little more that he should say. So after some thought he wrote again.

The foregoing letter was finished and signed before I opened the envelope you gave me. I find now to my consternation that you are not the girl I was told I was to partner with. She was an utter stranger to me as much as you were. I knew nothing of her family or station in life. Her name, they told me, was Helen Foster, and I was not greatly curious about her, till I saw you coming up the aisle and knew that you must be the maid of honor, and my heart went out to you. I felt I must not run the risk of losing you.

Now, when I see your name, and know you are a Wainwright, my heart is turned to water and my hope sinks low. You come from a family of fabulous wealth and station, and I am a plain man with my way to make. I had no right to presume without knowing all about you. You must have laughed quietly to yourself over my presumption, for doubtless you knew more of me than I did of you. Also, I see another cause for blame in me. What right had I to assume that that other girl, whoever she was, would not be wealthy and socially prominent and resent an impetuous courtship as well as yourself? Oh, the whole thing has made me despise myself. I never knew I was impetuous before. Yet, like any schoolboy, I have confessed my love for you before you had a chance to judge me. It wasn’t fair to you.

And yet, I love you, O I love you, Mary Elizabeth! I write your beautiful name reverently, Mary Elizabeth. How wonderful if I might someday say, my Mary Elizabeth!

I shall love you and pray for you.

John Saxon

Having addressed and sealed this letter, John lay down to sleep. He was more weary than he remembered to have felt ever in his life, and as he sank off to sleep he had the feeling that something so fine and lovely that he was almost willing to give his life for it had touched him and glanced away.

It wasn’t a long night. The porter awakened him before they reached New York. He had time to get himself dressed for the day and pack away his evening clothes for the journey south. He would not be needing them again. At least not till he came back in the fall—if he was accepted, and if he came back.

The morning light had not taken away his submission, but it had brought sober second thoughts. It had made him grave and almost sad. It had made him see his own act of proposing to a stranger, and such a stranger, as almost unforgivable. It had made him judge himself most severely. It would seem that he had entered this race with several handicaps that he was not even aware of until it was too late. His judgment had been on a spree and had landed him in a situation out of which there seemed no possible escape.

Now and then there would return to him a swift vision of the girl, and his heart would thrill to it instantly. Whatever she was, she was not false, not mocking.