it such a blind dependence? Why are we left so helpless? Why, with so
many powers as are given us, have we not that one other, worth all the
rest, of mutual insight? If God would bestow this power for this one
day, I would give up all else for it for ever after. Philip would trust
me again then, and I should understand him; and I could rest afterwards,
happen what might--though then nothing would happen but what was good.
But now, shut in, each into ourselves, with anger and sorrow all about
us, from some mistake which a moment's insight might remove--it is the
dreariest, the most tormenting state! What are all the locks, and bars,
and fetters in the world to it? So near each other too! When one look,
one tone, might perhaps lead to the clearing up of it all! There is no
occasion to bear this, however. So near as we are, nothing should
prevent our meeting--nothing shall prevent it."

She started up, and hastily put on her bonnet and gloves: but when her
hand was on the lock of her door, her heart misgave her. "If it should
fail!" she thought. "If he should neither look at me nor speak to me--
if he should leave me as he did yesterday! I should never get over the
shame. I dare not store up such a wretched remembrance, to make me
miserable as often as I think of it, for as long as I live. If he will
not come after reading my letter, neither would he hear me if I went to
him. Oh! he is very unjust! After all his feats of my being influenced
against him, he might have distrusted himself. After making me promise
to write, on the first doubt that any one might try to put into my mind,
he might have remembered to do the same by me, instead of coming down in
this way, not to explain, but to overwhelm me with his displeasure,
without giving me a moment's time to justify myself. Edward seems
strangely unkind too," she sighed, as she slowly untied her bonnet and
put it away, as if to avoid tempting herself with the sight of it again.
"I never knew Edward unjust or unkind before; but I heard him ask
Philip why he staid to hear me in the abbey yesterday; and though he has
been with Philip this morning, he does not seem to have made the
slightest attempt to bring us together. When such as Edward and Philip
do so wrong, one does not know where to trust, or what to hope. There
is nothing to trust, but God and the right. I will live for these, and
no one shall henceforth hear me complain, or see me droop, or know
a