"I shan't want anybody to speak to. I shall take with me just a few
books to read. I wonder whether Mrs Baggett would go with me. She
can't have much more to keep her in England than I have." But this
plan had not been absolutely fixed when Mary retired for the night,
with the intention of writing her letter to John Gordon before she
went to bed. Her letter took her long to write. The thinking of it
rather took too long. She sat leaning with her face on her hands,
and with a tear occasionally on her cheek, into the late night,
meditating rather on the sweet goodness of Mr Whittlestaff than on
the words of the letter. It had at last been determined that John
Gordon should be her husband. That the fates seem to have decided,
and she did acknowledge that in doing so the fates had been
altogether propitious. It would have been very difficult,--now at
last she owned that truth to herself,--it would have been very
difficult for her to have been true to the promise she had made,
altogether to eradicate John Gordon from her heart, and to fill up
the place left with a wife's true affection for Mr Whittlestaff. To
the performance of such a task as that she would not be subjected.
But on the other hand, John Gordon must permit her to entertain and
to evince a regard for Mr Whittlestaff, not similar at all to the
regard which she would feel for her husband, but almost equal in its
depth.

At last she took the paper and did write her letter, as follows:--

DEAR MR GORDON,--I am not surprised at anything that Mr
Whittlestaff should do which shows the goodness of his
disposition and the tenderness of his heart. He is, I
think, the most unselfish of mankind. I believe you to be
so thoroughly sincere in the affection which you express
for me, that you must acknowledge that he is so. If you
love me well enough to make me your wife, what must you
think of him who has loved me well enough to surrender me
to one whom I had known before he had taken me under his
fostering care?

You know that I love you, and am willing to become your
wife. What can I say to you now, except that it is so. It
is so. And in saying that, I have told you everything as
to myself. Of him I can only say, that his regard for me
has been more tender even than that of a father.--Yours
always most lovingly,

MARY LAWRIE.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CONCLUSION.

The day came at last on which Mary's visit to Lit