Well, Halford, what do you think of all this? and while you readit, did you ever picture to yourself what my feelings wouldprobably be during its perusal? Most likely not; but I am notgoing to descant upon them now: I will only make thisacknowledgment, little honourable as it may be to human nature, andespecially to myself, - that the former half of the narrative was,to me, more painful than the latter, not that I was at allinsensible to Mrs. Huntingdon's wrongs or unmoved by hersufferings, but, I must confess, I felt a kind of selfishgratification in watching her husband's gradual decline in her goodgraces, and seeing how completely he extinguished all her affectionat last. The effect of the whole, however, in spite of all mysympathy for her, and my fury against him, was to relieve my mindof an intolerable burden, and fill my heart with joy, as if somefriend had roused me from a dreadful nightmare.

It was now near eight o'clock in the morning, for my candle hadexpired in the midst of my perusal, leaving me no alternative butto get another, at the expense of alarming the house, or to go tobed, and wait the return of daylight. On my mother's account, Ichose the latter; but how willingly I sought my pillow, and howmuch sleep it brought me, I leave you to imagine.

At the first appearance of dawn, I rose, and brought the manuscriptto the window, but it was impossible to read it yet. I devotedhalf an hour to dressing, and then returned to it again. Now, witha little difficulty, I could manage; and with intense and eagerinterest, I devoured the remainder of its contents. When it wasended, and my transient regret at its abrupt conclusion was over, Iopened the window and put out my head to catch the cooling breeze,and imbibe deep draughts of the pure morning air. A splendidmorning it was; the half-frozen dew lay thick on the grass, theswallows were twittering round me, the rooks cawing, and cowslowing in the distance; and early frost and summer sunshine mingledtheir sweetness in the air. But I did not think of that: aconfusion of countless thoughts and varied emotions crowded upon mewhile I gazed abstractedly on the lovely face of nature. Soon,however, this chaos of thoughts and passions cleared away, givingplace to two distinct emotions: joy unspeakable that my adoredHelen was all I wished to think her - that through the noisomevapours of the world's aspersions and my own fancied convictions,her character shone bright, and clear, and stainless as that sun Icould not bear to look on; and shame and deep remorse for my ownconduct.

Immediately after breakfast I hurried over to Wildfell Hall.Rachel had risen many degrees in my estimation since yesterday. Iwas ready to greet her quite as an old friend; but every kindlyimpulse was checked by the look of cold distrust she cast upon meon opening the door. The old virgin had constituted herself theguardian of her lady's honour, I suppose, and doubtless she saw inme another Mr. Hargrave, only the more dangerous in being moreesteemed and trusted by her mistress.

'Missis can't see any one to-day, sir - she's poorly,' said she, inanswer to my inquiry for Mrs. Graham.

'But I must see her, Rachel,' said I, placing my hand on the doorto prevent its being shut against me.

'Indeed, sir, you can't,' replied she, settling her countenance instill more iron frigidity than before.

'Be so good as to announce me.'

'It's no manner of use, Mr. Markham; she's poorly, I tell you.'

Just in time to prevent me from committing the impropriety oftaking the citadel by storm, and pushing forward unannounced, aninner door opened, and little Arthur appeared with his frolicsomeplayfellow, the dog. He seized my hand between both his, andsmilingly drew me forward.

'Mamma says you're to come in, Mr. Markham,' said he, 'and I am togo out and play with Rover.'

Rachel retired with a sigh, and I stepped into the parlour and shutthe door. There, before the fire-place, stood the tall, gracefulfigure, wasted with many sorrows. I cast the manuscript on thetable, and looked in her face. Anxious and pale, it was turnedtowards me; her clear, dark eyes were fixed on mine with a gaze sointensely earnest that they bound me like a spell.

'Have you looked it over?' she murmured. The spell was broken.

'I've read it through,' said I, advancing into the room, - 'and Iwant to know if you'll forgive me - if you can forgive me?'

She did not answer, but her eyes glistened, and a faint red mantledon her lip and cheek. As I approached, she abruptly turned away,and went to the window. It was not in anger, I was well assured,but only to conceal or control her emotion. I therefore venturedto follow and stand beside her there, - but not to speak. She gaveme her hand, without turning her head, and murmured in a voice shestrove in vain to steady, - 'Can you forgive me?'

It might be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey thatlily hand to my lips, so I only gently pressed it between my own,and smilingly replied, - 'I hardly can. You should have told methis before. It shows a want of confidence - '

'Oh, no,' cried she, eagerly interrupting me; 'it was not that. Itwas no want of confidence in you; but if I had told you anything ofmy history, I must have told you all, in order to excuse myconduct; and I might well shrink from such a disclosure, tillnecessity obliged me to make it. But you forgive me? - I have donevery, very wrong, I know; but, as usual, I have reaped the bitterfruits of my own error, - and must reap them to the end.'

Bitter, indeed, was the tone of anguish, repressed by resolutefirmness, in which this was spoken. Now, I raised her hand to mylips, and fervently kissed it again and again; for tears preventedany other reply. She suffered these wild caresses withoutresistance or resentment; then, suddenly turning from me, she pacedtwice or thrice through the room. I knew by the contraction of herbrow, the tight compression of her lips, and wringing of her hands,that meantime a violent conflict between reason and passion wassilently passing within. At length she paused before the emptyfire-place, and turning to me, said calmly - if that might becalled calmness which was so evidently the result of a violenteffort, - 'Now, Gilbert, you must leave me - not this moment, butsoon - and you must never come again.'

'Never again, Helen? just when I love you more than ever.'

'For that very reason, if it be so, we should not meet again. Ithought this interview was necessary - at least, I persuaded myselfit was so - that we might severally ask and receive each other'spardon for the past; but there can be no excuse for another. Ishall leave this place, as soon as I have means to seek anotherasylum; but our intercourse must end here.'

'End here!' echoed I; and approaching the high, carved chimney-piece, I leant my hand against its heavy mouldings, and dropped myforehead upon it in silent, sullen despondency.

'You must not come again,' continued she. There was a slighttremor in her voice, but I thought her whole manner was provokinglycomposed, considering the dreadful sentence she pronounced. 'Youmust know why I tell you so,' she resumed; 'and you must see thatit is better to part at once: - if it be hard to say adieu forever, you ought to help me.' She paused. I did not answer. 'Willyou promise not to come? - if you won't, and if you do come hereagain, you will drive me away before I know where to find anotherplace of refuge - or how to seek it.'

'Helen,' said I, turning impatiently towards her, 'I cannot discussthe matter of eternal separation calmly and dispassionately as youcan do. It is no question of mere expedience with me; it is aquestion of life and death!'

She was silent. Her pale lips quivered, and her fingers trembledwith agitation, as she nervously entwined them in the hair-chain towhich was appended her small gold watch - the only thing of valueshe had permitted herself to keep. I had said an unjust and cruelthing; but I must needs follow it up with something worse.

'But, Helen!' I began in a soft, low tone, not daring to raise myeyes to her face, 'that man is not your husband: in the sight ofheaven he has forfeited all claim to - ' She seized my arm with agrasp of startling energy.

'Gilbert, don't!' she cried, in a tone that would have pierced aheart of adamant. 'For God's sake, don't you attempt thesearguments! No fiend could torture me like this!'

'I won't, I won't!' said I, gently laying my hand on hers; almostas much alarmed at her vehemence as ashamed of my own misconduct.

'Instead of acting like a true friend,' continued she, breakingfrom me, and throwing herself into the old arm-chair, 'and helpingme with all your might - or rather taking your own part in thestruggle of right against passion - you leave all the burden to me;- and not satisfied with that, you do your utmost to fight againstme - when you know that! - ' she paused, and hid her face in herhandkerchief.

'Forgive me, Helen!' pleaded I. 'I will never utter another wordon the subject. But may we not still meet as friends?'

'It will not do,' she replied, mournfully shaking her head; andthen she raised her eyes to mine, with a mildly reproachful lookthat seemed to say, 'You must know that as well as I.'

'Then what must we do?' cried I, passionately. But immediately Iadded in a quieter tone - 'I'll do whatever you desire; only don'tsay that this meeting is to be our last.'

'And why not? Don't you know that every time we meet the thoughtsof the final parting will become more painful? Don't you feel thatevery interview makes us dearer to each other than the last?'

The utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and thedowncast eyes and burning blush too plainly showed that she, atleast, had felt it. It was scarcely prudent to make such anadmission, or to add - as she presently did - 'I have power to bidyou go, now: another time it might be different,' - but I was notbase enough to attempt to take advantage of her candour.

'But we may write,' I timidly suggested. 'You will not deny methat consolation?'

'We can hear of each other through my brother.'

'Your brother!' A pang of remorse and shame shot through me. Shehad not heard of the injury he had sustained at my hands; and I hadnot the courage to tell her. 'Your brother will not help us,' Isaid: 'he would have all communion between us to be entirely at anend.'

'And he would be right, I suppose. As a friend of both, he wouldwish us both well; and every friend would tell us it was ourinterest, as well as our duty, to forget each other, though wemight not see it ourselves. But don't be afraid, Gilbert,' sheadded, smiling sadly at my manifest discomposure; 'there is littlechance of my forgetting you. But I did not mean that Frederickshould be the means of transmitting messages between us - only thateach might know, through him, of the other's welfare; - and morethan this ought not to be: for you are young, Gilbert, and youought to marry - and will some time, though you may think itimpossible now: and though I hardly can say I wish you to forgetme, I know it is right that you should, both for your ownhappiness, and that of your future wife; - and therefore I must andwill wish it,' she added resolutely.

'And you are young too, Helen,' I boldly replied; 'and when thatprofligate scoundrel has run through his career, you will give yourhand to me - I'll wait till then.'

But she would not leave me this support. Independently of themoral evil of basing our hopes upon the death of another, who, ifunfit for this world, was at least no less so for the next, andwhose amelioration would thus become our bane and his greatesttransgression our greatest benefit, - she maintained it to bemadness: many men of Mr. Huntingdon's habits had lived to a ripethough miserable old age. 'And if I,' said she, 'am young inyears, I am old in sorrow; but even if trouble should fail to killme before vice destroys him, think, if he reached but fifty yearsor so, would you wait twenty or fifteen - in vague uncertainty andsuspense - through all the prime of youth and manhood - and marryat last a woman faded and worn as I shall be - without ever havingseen me from this day to that? - You would not,' she continued,interrupting my earnest protestations of unfailing constancy, - 'orif you would, you should not. Trust me, Gilbert; in this matter Iknow better than you. You think me cold and stony-hearted, and youmay, but - '

'I don't, Helen.'

'Well, never mind: you might if you would: but I have not spentmy solitude in utter idleness, and I am not speaking now from theimpulse of the moment, as you do. I have thought of all thesematters again and again; I have argued these questions with myself,and pondered well our past, and present, and future career; and,believe me, I have come to the right conclusion at last. Trust mywords rather than your own feelings now, and in a few years youwill see that I was right - though at present I hardly can see itmyself,' she murmured with a sigh as she rested her head on herhand. 'And don't argue against me any more: all you can say hasbeen already said by my own heart and refuted by my reason. It washard enough to combat those suggestions as they were whisperedwithin me; in your mouth they are ten times worse, and if you knewhow much they pain me you would cease at once, I know. If you knewmy present feelings, you would even try to relieve them at theexpense of your own.'

'I will go - in a minute, if that can relieve you - and NEVERreturn!' said I, with bitter emphasis. 'But, if we may never meet,and never hope to meet again, is it a crime to exchange ourthoughts by letter? May not kindred spirits meet, and mingle incommunion, whatever be the fate and circumstances of their earthlytenements?'

'They may, they may!' cried she, with a momentary burst of gladenthusiasm. 'I thought of that too, Gilbert, but I feared tomention it, because I feared you would not understand my views uponthe subject. I fear it even now - I fear any kind friend wouldtell us we are both deluding ourselves with the idea of keeping upa spiritual intercourse without hope or prospect of anythingfurther - without fostering vain regrets and hurtful aspirations,and feeding thoughts that should be sternly and pitilessly left toperish of inanition.'

'Never mind our kind friends: if they can part our bodies, it isenough; in God's name, let them not sunder our souls!' cried I, interror lest she should deem it her duty to deny us this lastremaining consolation.

'But no letters can pass between us here,' said she, 'withoutgiving fresh food for scandal; and when I departed, I had intendedthat my new abode should be unknown to you as to the rest of theworld; not that I should doubt your word if you promised not tovisit me, but I thought you would be more tranquil in your own mindif you knew you could not do it, and likely to find less difficultyin abstracting yourself from me if you could not picture mysituation to your mind. But listen,' said she, smilingly puttingup her finger to check my impatient reply: 'in six months youshall hear from Frederick precisely where I am; and if you stillretain your wish to write to me, and think you can maintain acorrespondence all thought, all spirit - such as disembodied soulsor unimpassioned friends, at least, might hold, - write, and I willanswer you.'

'Six months!'

'Yes, to give your present ardour time to cool, and try the truthand constancy of your soul's love for mine. And now, enough hasbeen said between us. Why can't we part at once?' exclaimed she,almost wildly, after a moment's pause, as she suddenly rose fromher chair, with her hands resolutely clasped together. I thoughtit was my duty to go without delay; and I approached and halfextended my hand as if to take leave - she grasped it in silence.But this thought of final separation was too intolerable: itseemed to squeeze the blood out of my heart; and my feet were gluedto the floor.

'And must we never meet again?' I murmured, in the anguish of mysoul.

'We shall meet in heaven. Let us think of that,' said she in atone of desperate calmness; but her eyes glittered wildly, and herface was deadly pale.

'But not as we are now,' I could not help replying. 'It gives melittle consolation to think I shall next behold you as adisembodied spirit, or an altered being, with a frame perfect andglorious, but not like this! - and a heart, perhaps, entirelyestranged from me.'

'No, Gilbert, there is perfect love in heaven!'

'So perfect, I suppose, that it soars above distinctions, and youwill have no closer sympathy with me than with any one of the tenthousand thousand angels and the innumerable multitude of happyspirits round us.'

'Whatever I am, you will be the same, and, therefore, cannotpossibly regret it; and whatever that change may be we know it mustbe for the better.'

'But if I am to be so changed that I shall cease to adore you withmy whole heart and soul, and love you beyond every other creature,I shall not be myself; and though, if ever I win heaven at all, Imust, I know, be infinitely better and happier than I am now, myearthly nature cannot rejoice in the anticipation of suchbeatitude, from which itself and its chief joy must be excluded.'

'Is your love all earthly, then?'

'No, but I am supposing we shall have no more intimate communionwith each other than with the rest.'

'If so, it will be because we love them more, and not each otherless. Increase of love brings increase of happiness, when it ismutual, and pure as that will be.'

'But can you, Helen, contemplate with delight this prospect oflosing me in a sea of glory?'

'I own I cannot; but we know not that it will be so; - and I doknow that to regret the exchange of earthly pleasures for the joysof heaven, is as if the grovelling caterpillar should lament thatit must one day quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft and flutterthrough the air, roving at will from flower to flower, sippingsweet honey from their cups, or basking in their sunny petals. Ifthese little creatures knew how great a change awaited them, nodoubt they would regret it; but would not all such sorrow bemisplaced? And if that illustration will not move you, here isanother:- We are children now; we feel as children, and weunderstand as children; and when we are told that men and women donot play with toys, and that our companions will one day weary ofthe trivial sports and occupations that interest them and us sodeeply now, we cannot help being saddened at the thoughts of suchan alteration, because we cannot conceive that as we grow up ourown minds will become so enlarged and elevated that we ourselvesshall then regard as trifling those objects and pursuits we now sofondly cherish, and that, though our companions will no longer joinus in those childish pastimes, they will drink with us at otherfountains of delight, and mingle their souls with ours in higheraims and nobler occupations beyond our present comprehension, butnot less deeply relished or less truly good for that, while yetboth we and they remain essentially the same individuals as before.But, Gilbert, can you really derive no consolation from the thoughtthat we may meet together where there is no more pain and sorrow,no more striving against sin, and struggling of the spirit againstthe flesh; where both will behold the same glorious truths, anddrink exalted and supreme felicity from the same fountain of lightand goodness - that Being whom both will worship with the sameintensity of holy ardour - and where pure and happy creatures bothwill love with the same divine affection? If you cannot, neverwrite to me!'

'Helen, I can! if faith would never fail.'

'Now, then,' exclaimed she, 'while this hope is strong within us -'

'We will part,' I cried. 'You shall not have the pain of anothereffort to dismiss me. I will go at once; but - '

I did not put my request in words: she understood itinstinctively, and this time she yielded too - or rather, there wasnothing so deliberate as requesting or yielding in the matter:there was a sudden impulse that neither could resist. One moment Istood and looked into her face, the next I held her to my heart,and we seemed to grow together in a close embrace from which nophysical or mental force could rend us. A whispered 'God blessyou!' and 'Go - go!' was all she said; but while she spoke she heldme so fast that, without violence, I could not have obeyed her. Atlength, however, by some heroic effort, we tore ourselves apart,and I rushed from the house.

I have a confused remembrance of seeing little Arthur running upthe garden-walk to meet me, and of bolting over the wall to avoidhim - and subsequently running down the steep fields, clearing thestone fences and hedges as they came in my way, till I gotcompletely out of sight of the old hall and down to the bottom ofthe hill; and then of long hours spent in bitter tears andlamentations, and melancholy musings in the lonely valley, with theeternal music in my ears, of the west wind rushing through theovershadowing trees, and the brook babbling and gurgling along itsstony bed; my eyes, for the most part, vacantly fixed on the deep,chequered shades restlessly playing over the bright sunny grass atmy feet, where now and then a withered leaf or two would comedancing to share the revelry; but my heart was away up the hill inthat dark room where she was weeping desolate and alone - she whomI was not to comfort, not to see again, till years or suffering hadovercome us both, and torn our spirits from their perishing abodesof clay.

There was little business done that day, you may be sure. The farmwas abandoned to the labourers, and the labourers were left totheir own devices. But one duty must be attended to; I had notforgotten my assault upon Frederick Lawrence; and I must see him toapologise for the unhappy deed. I would fain have put it off tillthe morrow; but what if he should denounce me to his sister in themeantime? No, no! I must ask his pardon to-day, and entreat himto be lenient in his accusation, if the revelation must be made. Ideferred it, however, till the evening, when my spirits were morecomposed, and when - oh, wonderful perversity of human nature! -some faint germs of indefinite hopes were beginning to rise in mymind; not that I intended to cherish them, after all that had beensaid on the subject, but there they must lie for a while, uncrushedthough not encouraged, till I had learnt to live without them.

Arrived at Woodford, the young squire's abode, I found no littledifficulty in obtaining admission to his presence. The servantthat opened the door told me his master was very ill, and seemed tothink it doubtful whether he would be able to see me. I was notgoing to be baulked, however. I waited calmly in the hall to beannounced, but inwardly determined to take no denial. The messagewas such as I expected - a polite intimation that Mr. Lawrencecould see no one; he was feverish, and must not be disturbed.

'I shall not disturb him long,' said I; 'but I must see him for amoment: it is on business of importance that I wish to speak tohim.'

'I'll tell him, sir,' said the man. And I advanced further intothe hall and followed him nearly to the door of the apartment wherehis master was - for it seemed he was not in bed. The answerreturned was that Mr. Lawrence hoped I would be so good as to leavea message or a note with the servant, as he could attend to nobusiness at present.

'He may as well see me as you,' said I; and, stepping past theastonished footman, I boldly rapped at the door, entered, andclosed it behind me. The room was spacious and handsomelyfurnished - very comfortably, too, for a bachelor. A clear, redfire was burning in the polished grate: a superannuated greyhound,given up to idleness and good living, lay basking before it on thethick, soft rug, on one corner of which, beside the sofa, sat asmart young springer, looking wistfully up in its master's face -perhaps asking permission to share his couch, or, it might be, onlysoliciting a caress from his hand or a kind word from his lips.The invalid himself looked very interesting as he lay recliningthere, in his elegant dressing-gown, with a silk handkerchief boundacross his temples. His usually pale face was flushed andfeverish; his eyes were half closed, until he became sensible of mypresence - and then he opened them wide enough: one hand wasthrown listlessly over the back of the sofa, and held a smallvolume, with which, apparently, he had been vainly attempting tobeguile the weary hours. He dropped it, however, in his start ofindignant surprise as I advanced into the room and stood before himon the rug. He raised himself on his pillows, and gazed upon mewith equal degrees of nervous horror, anger, and amazement depictedon his countenance.

'Mr. Markham, I scarcely expected this!' he said; and the bloodleft his cheek as he spoke.

'I know you didn't,' answered I; 'but be quiet a minute, and I'lltell you what I came for.' Unthinkingly, I advanced a step or twonearer. He winced at my approach, with an expression of aversionand instinctive physical fear anything but conciliatory to myfeelings. I stepped back, however.

'Make your story a short one,' said he, putting his hand on thesmall silver bell that stood on the table beside him, 'or I shallbe obliged to call for assistance. I am in no state to bear yourbrutalities now, or your presence either.' And in truth themoisture started from his pores and stood on his pale forehead likedew.

Such a reception was hardly calculated to diminish the difficultiesof my unenviable task. It must be performed however, in somefashion; and so I plunged into it at once, and floundered throughit as I could.

'The truth is, Lawrence,' said I, 'I have not acted quite correctlytowards you of late - especially on this last occasion; and I'mcome to - in short, to express my regret for what has been done,and to beg your pardon. If you don't choose to grant it,' I addedhastily, not liking the aspect of his face, 'it's no matter; onlyI've done my duty - that's all.'

'It's easily done,' replied he, with a faint smile bordering on asneer: 'to abuse your friend and knock him on the head without anyassignable cause, and then tell him the deed was not quite correct,but it's no matter whether he pardons it or not.'

'I forgot to tell you that it was in consequence of a mistake,' -muttered I. 'I should have made a very handsome apology, but youprovoked me so confoundedly with your -. Well, I suppose it's myfault. The fact is, I didn't know that you were Mrs. Graham'sbrother, and I saw and heard some things respecting your conducttowards her which were calculated to awaken unpleasant suspicions,that, allow me to say, a little candour and confidence on your partmight have removed; and, at last, I chanced to overhear a part of aconversation between you and her that made me think I had a rightto hate you.'

'And how came you to know that I was her brother?' asked he, insome anxiety.

'She told me herself. She told me all. She knew I might betrusted. But you needn't disturb yourself about that, Mr.Lawrence, for I've seen the last of her!'

'The last! Is she gone, then?'

'No; but she has bid adieu to me, and I have promised never to gonear that house again while she inhabits it.' I could have groanedaloud at the bitter thoughts awakened by this turn in thediscourse. But I only clenched my hands and stamped my foot uponthe rug. My companion, however, was evidently relieved.

'You have done right,' he said, in a tone of unqualifiedapprobation, while his face brightened into almost a sunnyexpression. 'And as for the mistake, I am sorry for both our sakesthat it should have occurred. Perhaps you can forgive my want ofcandour, and remember, as some partial mitigation of the offence,how little encouragement to friendly confidence you have given meof late.'

'Yes, yes - I remember it all: nobody can blame me more than Iblame myself in my own heart; at any rate, nobody can regret moresincerely than I do the result of my brutality, as you rightly termit.'

'Never mind that,' said he, faintly smiling; 'let us forget allunpleasant words on both sides, as well as deeds, and consign tooblivion everything that we have cause to regret. Have you anyobjection to take my hand, or you'd rather not?' It trembledthrough weakness as he held it out, and dropped before I had timeto catch it and give it a hearty squeeze, which he had not thestrength to return.

'How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence,' said I. 'You arereally ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk.'

'Oh, it is nothing; only a cold got by the rain.'

'My doing, too.'

'Never mind that. But tell me, did you mention this affair to mysister?'

'To confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but when youtell her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, and - ?'

'Oh, never fear! I shall say nothing against you, as long as youkeep your good resolution of remaining aloof from her. She has notheard of my illness, then, that you are aware of?'

'I think not.'

'I'm glad of that, for I have been all this time tormenting myselfwith the fear that somebody would tell her I was dying, ordesperately ill, and she would be either distressing herself onaccount of her inability to hear from me or do me any good, orperhaps committing the madness of coming to see me. I mustcontrive to let her know something about it, if I can,' continuedhe, reflectively, 'or she will be hearing some such story. Manywould be glad to tell her such news, just to see how she would takeit; and then she might expose herself to fresh scandal.'

'I wish I had told her,' said I. 'If it were not for my promise, Iwould tell her now.'

'By no means! I am not dreaming of that; - but if I were to writea short note, now, not mentioning you, Markham, but just giving aslight account of my illness, by way of excuse for my not coming tosee her, and to put her on her guard against any exaggeratedreports she may hear, - and address it in a disguised hand - wouldyou do me the favour to slip it into the post-office as you pass?for I dare not trust any of the servants in such a case.'

Most willingly I consented, and immediately brought him his desk.There was little need to disguise his hand, for the poor fellowseemed to have considerable difficulty in writing at all, so as tobe legible. When the note was done, I thought it time to retire,and took leave, after asking if there was anything in the world Icould do for him, little or great, in the way of alleviating hissufferings, and repairing the injury I had done.

'No,' said he; 'you have already done much towards it; you havedone more for me than the most skilful physician could do: for youhave relieved my mind of two great burdens - anxiety on my sister'saccount, and deep regret upon your own: for I do believe these twosources of torment have had more effect in working me up into afever than anything else; and I am persuaded I shall soon recovernow. There is one more thing you can do for me, and that is, comeand see me now and then - for you see I am very lonely here, and Ipromise your entrance shall not be disputed again.'

I engaged to do so, and departed with a cordial pressure of thehand. I posted the letter on my way home, most manfully resistingthe temptation of dropping in a word from myself at the same time.