m ashamed. I will tell you the truth,
which is that on the day I left you I had received a letter telling me
that the friend of whom I have often told you was in England, very ill,
and with no one to care for him. I had to go. I don't know whether it
was right or wrong--wrong I suppose--but I always knew that if he ever
wanted me I SHOULD go. I've always been truthful to you about that.
When I came here I found that he was in horrible lodgings, very ill
indeed, and with no one to look after him. I HAD to stay, and now for a
week he has been between life and death. He had pneumonia some weeks
ago and went out too soon. His heart also is bad. I believe now he can
get well if great care is taken.

Dear Paul, I don't know what to say to you. I have a bedroom in this
house and every one is very kind to me, but you will think me very
wicked. I can't help it. I can't come back to you and Grace. Perhaps
later when he is quite well I shall be able to, but I don't think so.
You don't need me; I have never been satisfactory to you, only a worry.
Grace will never be able to live with me again, and I can't stay in
Skeaton any more after Uncle Mathew's death. It has all been a wretched
mistake, Paul, our marriage, hasn't it? It was my fault entirely. I
shouldn't have married you when I knew that I would always love Martin.
I thought then that I should be able to make you happy. If now I felt
that I could I would come back at once, but you know as well as I do
that, after this, we shall never be happy together again. I blame
myself so much but I can't act differently. Perhaps when Martin is well
he will not want me at all, but even then I don't think I could come
back. Isn't it better that at least I should stay away for a time? You
can say that I am staying with friends in London. You will be happier
without me, oh, much happier--and Grace will be happier too. Perhaps
you will think it better to forget me altogether and then your life
will be as it was before you met me.

I won't ask you to forgive me for all the trouble I have been to you. I
don't think you can. But I can't do differently now. Your affectionate
MAGGIE.

She felt when she had finished it that it was miserably inadequate,
but at least it was truthful. As she wrote it her old feelings of
tenderness and affection for Paul came back in a great flood. She saw
him during the many, many times when he had been so good to her. She
was miserable as she finished it, but she