plead the promises and enter in. The Lord himself says,
Come."

"Aunt Caxton, I understand, I think; but I do not feel; not anything
but fear,--and desire."

"This is the mere statement of truth, my dear; it is like the altar
with the wood laid in readiness and the sacrifice--all cold; and till
fire falls down from heaven, no incense will arise from earth. But if
any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men
liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him."

"I am a poor creature, aunt Caxton!" said Eleanor, hiding her face
again. And again Mrs. Caxton's arm came tenderly round her. And again
Eleanor's tears flowed, this time in a flood.

"Certainly you are a poor creature, Eleanor. I am glad you are finding
it out. But will you flee to the stronghold, you poor little prisoner
of hope?"

"I think I am rather the prisoner of fear, aunty."

"Hope is a better gaoler, my deal."

"But that is the very thing that I want."

"The Lord give it you!"

They sat a good while in stillness after that, each thinking her own
thoughts; or perhaps those of the elder lady took the form of prayers.
At last Eleanor raised her head and kissed her aunt's lips earnestly.

"How good of you to let me come to Plassy!" she said.

"I shall keep you here now. You will not wish to be at home again for
some time."

"No, ma'am. No indeed I shall not."

"What are you going to do about Mr. Carlisle?"

"I shall write to-morrow. Or to-night."

"And tell him?--"

"The plain truth, aunt Caxton. I mean, the truth of the fact, of
course. It is very hard!"--said Eleanor sorrowfully.

"It is doubtless hard; but it is the least of all the choice of evils
you have left yourself. Write to-night,--and here, if you will. If you
can without being disturbed by me."

"The sight of you will only help me, aunt Caxton. But I did not know
the harm I was doing when I entered into all this."

"I believe it. Go and write your letter."

Eleanor brought her paper-case and sat down at the table. Mrs. Caxton
ordered other lights and was mutely busy at her own table. Not a word
was spoken for a good while. It was with a strange mixture of pain and
bursting gladness that Eleanor wrote the letter which she hoped would
set her free. But the gladness was enough to make her sure it ought to
be written; and the pain enough to make it a bitter piece of work. The
letter was finished, folded, sealed; and with a sigh Eleanor closed her
pa