The times-news., 1938-12-31
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BY ADELAIDE HUMPHREYS


herself stubbornly, over and, over
There was some very good reason
why she had not heard from him,
She believed this, because she be-
lieved in Dan. Bat it did not keep
her heart from aching; nor lift
the heavy weight that had settled
for good, apparently-on it.
She was never to forget the
morning the letter came. She had
looked for a letter so many morn
ings. Always with that spring of
rising hope that always-until
this morning-died away. This
morning brought the letter she
had waited for so long. The let
ter she had known would come.
That she knew, even before she
opened it, was the letter from
Dan. -.
She held it against her rapidly
beating heart for long moment
before she gave herself the en-
quisite delight of reading what
Dan had to say. For now, Of
course, Dan would explain why he
had gone away, he would explain
everything, just as she had known
ne would. He would explain, tooi
why he had not written before.
The letter was poStmarked
from the little town in the hills of
New Hampshire from which Dan
had come. He had returned to his
home then. The letter began,
Dear Sally" 1t was very short.
1t was signed simply, Dan.
But its contents were what
Sally read over and ever, first
with that high lift, of hope, then
with increasing dismay and de-
spair tinged with disbelief that
Dan could have written this letter
to her. g..
"Dear Sally letter read
-"I thought l could go away
without a word. But / find l
can't. l don't want you to think
me ungrateful for the friendship
you gave me. But you were right.
I am coward. When it comes to
your gay, glamorous world. l
thought l could adapt myself to
it. / thought, for awhile, that /
was happy in it. But it is not the
kind of world / want, not the
kind of life l planned. To be per-
fectly honest with you, you are
not the kind of girl | want, either
.-as l told you long .ago-Sally
Blair"
There was no other signature,
except his name. No address. No
postscript. Nothing more. Not
even anything to read between
the lines. For Sally, reading them
over and over, tried her best to
discover. if there could not be
something more. left unwritten.
Oh, surely this could not be all
that Dan had to say to her! All
that he ever would have to say.
This last thought struck her like
q blow over her heart, banishing
hope entirely. For this brief let
ter was farewell; it was finis,
Everything was over-forever--
between herself and Dan.
"To be honest"-yes, Dan was
always that, he could not be
otherwise-"to be honest" Sally
read again, "you are not the kind
of girl l want, Sally. Blair" She
knew this should arouse her re-
sentiment, her hot anger; her pride
and scorn. But that would come
later, all of it. Now it brought
only dull ache, an empty sense
of utter loss. 49,
! What kind of girl did Dan think
she was? Hadn't he told her, that
lovely day by the brook, that he
believed in her? Hadn't she prov
/ cd to him, during these happy
months of friendship, that she
was the kind of girl he should be-
lieve in?
| Looking deep into her owr
heart Sally knew that though she
had tried she had not quite sue
eeeded, had not quite played fair,
/ She should have told Dan the
whole truth, about herself and
about he rfather, that they had
l hnnn the nnes To ,,hnln him Shn