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“I can’t help it. To think of him wandering in that horrible place—unwilling to come back now that he thinks there is no one here———”

“Sh! I won’t have you thinking this way, Grace. Do you wish me to slap you?”

Grace smiled wistfully.

“You are sure he will want me back—after running away———”

“Another cup of tea,” ordered Patricia sharply, taking Grace’s cup. “And please stop talking nonsense!”

She handed the blind woman another cup of tea.

“By-the-way,” she said in casual tones, “I suppose you wrote to him occasionally after you left?”

“Why—no,” answered Grace, in some surprise. “To tell you the truth, I—I didn’t think he would wish to hear from me. I thought he would like to make his decisions without—without———”

“I understand, dear,” interrupted Patricia, leaning over to touch Grace’s shoulder, her eyes shining strangely. “Now, try another meringue. I’ll go and put a little more water in the pot.”

“Don’t bother on my account,” begged Grace, as Patricia moved away.

“This is on my account,” declared Patricia as she left the room.

In the small kitchenette Patricia opened the sodden letter with care, spread it upon the small table and read it through without shame. It was the late Catherine Whipple’s first and last shot in her campaign to unite husband and wife; and it proved to Patricia that she still could feel, that her fight was not yet won—or lost.