Letter dejection appeared to have possession of the usually smiling Jimmy, so decided on a little home missionary work and invited Mr. Marion to come home with me for dinner. He insisted that he hadn't time for that, but that he'd like to table me out to dinner and tell me his troubles. Just as we were leaving the letter of which I have told you, I picked it up uncarelessly. My heart glanced at it and put it in my pocket. At that juncture, the change and circumstance did a very wonderful stroke of work. If I had not put that letter in my pocket—if I had left it for the next morning's mail—the fate of a great many people must have been sadly different. But I did thrust that letter carelessly into my pocket, and it dropped to the floor just where Jimmy and I were finishing dinner in a quiet corner of the English grill. Jimmy picked it up and frowned at the square, heavy English writing. "Look more like a love letter than a letter about love," he complained. I was not in the mood for banter, so I shoved the letter across the table. Jimmy read it—eagerly he reread it—then he leaned across the table and spoke in a queer, breathless voice. 