the night was far spent. for hours peter had sat by his table with writing materials before him, and at length his letter was written, ended.
“it is the last time i shall write to you, but i ask you to condone my conduct—at least, sufficiently to read what i have written. i know i have no excuse to make. to say that my deception arose from the knowledge that if you once knew peter the piper and robin adair as one and the same i should lose your letters is of course none. i deceived you deliberately, and broke the compact that our identities should remain unknown to each other. though i did not first break it, nor was it broken of my will. being broken by fate, however, i should have told you.
“and by now you will have realized that you extended the hand of friendship to one who had entirely forfeited the right to it. is it, perhaps, any compensation to you to know that your letters, your kindness, have at least been received with humble gratitude, with the most intense and overwhelming pleasure by one however unworthy to receive them?
“i shall leave this cottage at daylight. my presence here longer would, i know, be distasteful to you. i have no right to ask your forgiveness, yet if one day you could extend it to me, and think less hardly of me, i should be glad. the one thing i can do, and believe you would wish me to do, is to destroy your letters. i cannot destroy the memory of them—that is impossible, and i dare to hope that in your generosity you will not grudge it to me.
“presently i shall try to write again, and if ever fate should throw my work in your path, and you deign to read it, then know that whatever in it is of worth, whatever is in the smallest degree of good, has been inspired by the thought of you.
“for all your blessed kindness, for the fact that you are you and are in the world, i shall throughout my life be grateful.
“perhaps one day i may get the chance to atone.
“peter carden.”
the letter written, peter got up from his chair and crossed to the fireplace. in a few moments a flame sprang up, and some bluish papers twisted and shrivelled in its heat. presently nothing was left but a small heap of grey ashes.
peter sat very still. there was a lump in his throat, and he swallowed hard once or twice, but his eyes were dry. a bird chirped in the bushes outside the cottage; it was answered by another and another. the air became full of a chorus of twitterings and chirpings.
peter roused himself. he picked up his hat and a bundle from the table and went to the cottage door. in the east the sky was flushing to rose and lavender. peter went down the path. he opened the little gate. a moment later it had swung to behind him, and he was walking down the dusty road.
