"It's been fifteen years," I said, "There's no reason why I should go back." "It couldn't do any harm, could it?" said Larry.

"It couldn't do any good."

"It might lay a few ghosts," said Larry.

I thought that over. Perhaps Larry was right. He usually was.

I arrived in Hintonville the evening before the funeral. There was a light in the old house, and Miss Annie Hodge was waiting to meet me.

"Oh, Mister Jimmie!" she panted, peering at me with rubbed, red eyes. Mister Jimmie...

I said, "How do you do?"

"I've been getting everything ready for you," she said.

"I'll see that you're paid for your trouble," I said.

She was gone at last. I sat in the living-room, lonely for Larry, depressed by the chill mustiness of the old house.

Idly I looked at the keys Miss Annie had turned over to me-her "housekeeping" keys and those my father had always carried. Here was the little brass key. "To his precious secret drawer," my mother had said. ". . . the one in his desk."

I wondered about the drawer-if anyone had ever found it, if it had been opened since his death.

As far as I knew, his only desk was the one here in the mahogany secretary. I dragged it out a little way from the wall and looked at it. I could see no place where a drawer might be hidden.

I ran my hand over the wood. There was a rough spot in the ornamental moulding just below the desk-top. It was the head of a nishing-nail. A curious spot for a nail, I thought.

With a kitchen knife I pried at the moulding. I loosened the nail and pulled it out. A strip of the moulding swung back on a hinge. Behind it was a keyhole.

I tried the brass key, turned it, and pulled. A small drawer slid out.

On top was a yellowed photograph—the picture of a young man I had never seen. It was a wistful face, delicate, yet strong. On it was written, "To Jim from Arne."

Under it was a letter addressed to James Hendricks, Esq.—my father. The postmark on the envelope showed that it was thirty-odd years old.

I unfolded the thin, brittle paper and read:

Jim, my darling,

Let me call you my darling again. Let me tell you how much I love you and long for you. If I could make you understand... Jim, that night at the cabin when you... Afterward you said it was the liquor. You tried to pretend it had never happened, but you loved me then, as I loved you. Jim, I'll go away. I'll do anything you say, only don't marry her just to prove. destroy yourself...I love you. I love you.

•

Always your own ARNE

"

don't

I sat numbly with the letter in my hand. This was my father . . . this. Some of the old bitterness stirred inside me, but there was something else. There was the beginning of compassion.

He had had his poor, warped shell of self-righteousness. Little more than that. And I had had so much.

I went to the telephone and placed a call to New York. I sat in the silent house, waiting impatiently for the sound of Larry's voice.

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