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 “I was so happy all this summer, Anne—happier than I ever was in my life. I thought it was because everything had been made clear between you and me, and that it was our friendship which made life seem so beautiful and full once more. And it was, in part—but not all—oh, not nearly all. I know now why everything was so different. And now it’s all over—and he has gone. How can I live, Anne? When I turned back into the house this morning after he had gone the solitude struck me like a blow in the face.”

“It won’t seem so hard by and by, dear,” said Anne, who always felt the pain of her friends so keenly that she could not speak easy, fluent words of comforting. Besides, she remembered how well-meant speeches had hurt her in her own sorrow and was afraid.

“Oh, it seems to me it will grow harder all the time,” said Leslie miserably. “I’ve nothing to look forward to. Morning will come after morning—and he will not come back—he will never come back. Oh, when I think that I will never see him again I feel as if a great brutal hand had twisted itself among my heartstrings, and was wrenching them. Once, long ago, I dreamed of love—and I thought it must be beautiful—and now—its like this. When he went away yesterday morning he was so cold and indifferent. He said ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Moore’ in the coldest tone in the world—as if we had not even been friends—as if I meant absolutely nothing to him. I know