ments I still think that you will--I feel that you are on
your way hither, and I fancy that this dreadful dream of your
displeasure will pass away. It is the first time in my life that any
one has been seriously and lastingly displeased with me; and, though I
feel that I have not deserved it, I am very wretched that you, of all
others, should blame me, and cease to trust me. There ought to be
some comfort in the thought that your anger is without cause: but I
cannot find such comfort; for I feel that though I could endure your
loss by long absence or death, I cannot live in the spirit in which I
should wish to live, without your esteem.

"It is useless, alas! to entreat of you to come and explain yourself,
or in some other way to put me in possession of the cause of your
anger. If you could resist the claims I had upon you for confidence
before I knew what was going to befall me--if you could resist the
demand I made yesterday, I fear there is little use in imploring you
to do me justice. If I thought there was any chance, I would submit
to entreat, though I would not have you, any more than myself, forget
that I have a right to demand. But indeed I would yield everything
that I dare forego, to have you awakened from this strange delusion
which makes us both wretched. It is no time for pride now. I care
not how fully you know what I feel. I only wish that you could see
into my soul as into your own; for then you would not misjudge me as
you do. I care not what any one may think of my throwing myself upon
the love which I am certain you feel for me, if I can only persuade
you to tell me what you mean, and to hear what I shall then have to
say. What can I now say? I will not reproach you, for I know you
must be even, if possible, more miserable than I: but yet, how can I
help feeling that you have been unjust and harsh with me? Yes; though
the tone of your letter seems to be gentle, and you clearly mean it to
be so, I feel that you have been very harsh to me. Nothing that you
can do shall ever make me so cruel to you. You may rest satisfied
that, if we should not meet again, I will never be unjust to you. To
every one about me it will appear that you are fickle and
dishonourable--that you have acted towards me as it is in the nature
of some men to act towards the women whose affections they possess; in
the nature of some men, but not in yo