“MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. "You needn't gag me," he added, "I'll not cry out. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone.
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