The Secret of Lonesome Cove. Samuel Hopkins Adams
that, I spoke as it is given to a man to speak to one woman in the world when he has found her. She listened, with her eyes on the pictured face. But when I said to her, “You, who have all my heart, and whose name, even, I have not—is there no word for me,” she rose, and threw out her hands in a gesture that sent a chill through me.
“Oh, no! No!” she cried vehemently. “Nothing—except good-by. Oh, why did you speak?”
I stood and watched her go. At the end of the garden walk she stooped and picked a rose with her gloved fingers, and as she disappeared in the thicket at the top of the hill I thought she half turned to look. That was five interminable days ago. I have not seen her since. I feel it is her will that I shall never see her again. And I must! You understand, Kent, you must find her!
I forgot to tell you that when I was sketching her I asked if she could bring something pink to wear, preferably coral. She came the next time with a string of the most beautiful rose-topazes I have ever seen, set in a most curious old gold design. It was that necklace and none other that the woman with the bundle wore, half concealed, when she came here.
To-day—it is yesterday really, since I am finishing this at three A. M.—the messenger boy brought me a telegram. It was from my love. It had been sent from Boston, and it read:
“Destroy the picture, for my sake. It tells too much of both of us.”
The message was unsigned. I have destroyed the picture. Help me! ——F. S.
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