"And now, since sorrow has come to you, in my turn I seek you
where you stand by a darkened door alone, and I send to you
my very soul in this poor, inky letter,--all I can
offer--Clive--all that I believe--all that I am.
"ATHALIE."

So much for tribute and condolence as far as she could be concerned
where she remained among the other millions outside the sacred
threshold across which her letter and her flowers had gone, across
which the girl herself might never go.

After a few days he wrote and thanked her for her letter, not of
course knowing about the lilies: "It is the first time death has ever come very near me. I had
been told and had always thought that we were a long-lived
race.

"I am still dazed by it. I suppose the sharper grief will
come when this dull, unreal sense of stupefaction wears away.

"We were very close together, my father and I. Oh, but we
might have been closer, Athalie!--I might have been with him
oftener, seen more of him, spent less time away from him.

"I did try to be a good son. I could have been far better.
It's a bitter thing to realise at such a time.

"And I had so much to say to him. I cannot understand that I
can never say it now.... Athalie dear, my mother wishes me to
take her abroad. I made arrangements yesterday at the Cunard
office. We sail Saturday. Could I see you for a moment before
I go?
"CLIVE."