While Anne Pierson’s wedding day had dawned with a light snow on the ground, the weather underwent a considerable change during the night, and the next morning broke, gray and threatening. Heavy, sullen clouds dropped low in the sky, and by four o’clock that afternoon a raw, dispiriting winter rain had set in, accompanied by a moaning wind that made the day seem doubly dreary. Promptly at four o’clock Grace saw Tom swing up the walk without an umbrella. His black raincoat, buttoned up to his chin, was infinitely becoming to his fair Saxon type of good looks, and Grace could not repress a tiny thrill of satisfaction that this strong, handsome man cared for her. The next second she dismissed the thought as unworthy. She welcomed Tom, however, with a gentle friendliness, partly due to his good looks, that caused his eyes to flash with new hope. Perhaps Grace cared a little after all. He had rarely seen her so kind since their carefree days of boy and girl friendship, when there had been no barrier of unrequited love between them.

“Come and sit by the fire, Tom,” invited Grace. “I love an open fire on a dark, rainy day like this.” She motioned him to a chair opposite her own at the other side of the fireplace. Tom seated himself, and the two began to talk of the wedding, Oakdale, their friends, everything in fact that led away from the thoughts that lay nearest the young man’s heart. Grace skilfully kept the conversation on impersonal topics. By doing so she hoped to make Tom understand that she did not wish to discuss what had long been a sore subject between them. So the two young people talked on and on, while outside the rain fell in torrents, and the dark day began to merge into an early twilight.

With the coming of the dusk Grace began to feel the strain. Tom’s pale face had taken on a set look in the fitful glow of the fire. Suddenly he leaned far forward in his chair. “It’s no use, Grace. I know you’ve tried to keep me from saying what I came here to-day to say, but I’m going to tell you again. I love you, Grace, and I need you in my life. Why can’t you love me as I love you?”

Grace’s clean-cut profile was turned directly toward Tom. She reached forward for the poker and began nervously prodding the fire. Tom caught the hand that held the poker. Unclasping her limp fingers from about it, he set it impatiently in place. “Look at me, Grace, not at the fire,” he commanded.

Grace raised sorrowful eyes to him. Then she made a little gesture of appeal. “Why must we talk of this again, Tom? Why can’t we be friends just as we used to be, back in our high-school days?”

“Because it’s not in the nature of things,” returned Tom, his eyes full of pain. “I am a man now, with a man’s devoted love for you. The whole trouble lies in the sad fact that you are just a dreaming child, without the faintest idea of what life really means.”

“You are mistaken, Tom.” There was a hint of offended dignity in Grace’s tones. “I do understand the meaning of life, only it doesn’t mean love to me. It means work. The highest pleasure I have in life is my work.”

“You think so now, but you won’t always think so. There will come a time in your life when you’ll realize how great a power for happiness love is. All our dearest friends have looked forward to seeing you my wife. Your parents wish it. Aunt Rose loves you already as a dear niece. Even Anne, your chum, thinks you are making a mistake in choosing work instead of love. Of course I know that what your friends think can make no difference in what you think. Still I believe if you would once put the idea away of being self-supporting you’d see matters in a different light. You aren’t obliged to work for your living. Why not give Harlowe House into the care of some one who is, and marry me?”

“But you don’t understand me in the least, Tom.” A petulant note crept into Grace’s voice. “It’s just because I’m not obliged to support myself that I’m happy in doing so. I feel so free and independent. It’s my freedom I love. I don’t love you. There are times when I’m sorry that I don’t, and then again there are times when I’m glad. I shall always be fond of you, but my feeling toward you is just the same as it is for Hippy or David or Reddy. There! I’ve hurt you. Forgive me. Must we say anything more about it? Please, please don’t look so hurt, Tom.”

Grace’s eyes were fastened on Tom with the sorrowing air of one who has inadvertently hurt a child. Usually so delicate in her respect for the feelings of others, she seemed fated continually to wound this loyal friend, whose only fault lay in the fact that his boyish affection for her had ripened into a man’s love. Saddest of all, an unrequited love.

“Of course I forgive you, Grace.” Tom rose. He looked long and searchingly into the face of the girl who had just hurt him so cruelly. “I—I think I’d better go now. I hope you’ll find all the happiness in your work that you expect to find. I’m only sorry it had to come first. I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Not until next summer, I suppose. I can’t come to Oakdale for Easter this year. I wish you’d write to me—that is, if you feel you’d like to. Remember, I am always your old friend Tom.”

“I will write to you, Tom.” Grace’s gray eyes were heavy with unshed tears. She winked desperately to keep them back. She would not cry. Luckily the dim light of the room prevented Tom from seeing how near she was to breaking down. It was all so sad. She had never before realized how much it hurt her to hurt Tom. She followed him into the hall and to the door in silence.

“Good-bye, Grace,” he said again, holding out his hand.

“Good-bye, Tom,” she faltered. He turned abruptly and hurried down the steps into the winter darkness. He did not look back.

Grace stood in the open door until the echo of his footsteps died out. Then she rushed into the living room and, throwing herself down on the big leather sofa, burst into bitter tears.