When I turned the last page of the manuscript and looked up, Miss Sylvia's soft brown eyes were full of tears. She lifted her hands, clasped them together and said in an agitated voice:
"Oh, no, no; don't let him go away without telling her--just telling her. Don't let him do it!"
"But, you see, Miss Sylvia," I explained, flattered beyond measure that my characters had seemed so real to her, "that would spoil the story. It would have no reason for existence then. Its _motif_ is simply his mastery over self. He believes it to be the nobler course."
"No, no, it wasn't--if he loved her he should have told her. Think of her shame and humiliation--she loved him, and he went without a word and she could never know he cared for her. Oh, you must change it--you must, indeed! I cannot bear to think of her suffering what I have suffered."
Miss Sylvia broke down and sobbed. To appease her, I promised that I would remodel the story, although I knew that the doing so would leave it absolutely pointless.
"Oh, I'm so glad," said Miss Sylvia, her eyes shining through her tears. "You see, I know it would make her happier--I know it. I'm going to tell you my poor little story to convince you. But you--you must not tell it to any of the others."
"I am sorry you think the admonition necessary," I said reproachfully.
"Oh, I do not, indeed I do not," she hastened to assure me. "I know I can trust you. But it's such a poor little story. You mustn't laugh at it--it is all the romance I had. Years ago--forty years ago--when I was a young girl of twenty, I--learned to care very much for somebody. I met him at a summer resort like this. I was there with my aunt and he was there with his mother, who was delicate. We saw a great deal of each other for a little while. He was--oh, he was like no other man I had ever seen. You remind me of him somehow. That is partly why I like you so much. I noticed the resemblance the first time I saw you. I don't know in just what it consists--in your expression and the way you carry your head, I think. He was not strong--he coughed a good deal. Then one day he went away--suddenly. I had thought he cared for me, but he never said so--just went away. Oh, the shame of it! After a time I heard that he had been ordered to California for his health. And he died out there the next spring. My heart broke then, I never cared for anybody again--I couldn't. I have always loved him. But it would have been so much easier to bear if I had only known that he loved me--oh, it would have made all the difference in the world. And the sting of it has been there all these years. I can't even permit myself the joy of dwelling on his memory because of the thought that perhaps he did not care."
