be distressing to your father, injurious to
all your family, and ruinous to yourself. If this be so,
how can I, who love you, wish for such a marriage?

I remember my promise, and have kept it. I would not
yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim our
engagement. But I do think it will be more prudent if
you will consent to forget all that has passed between
us--not, perhaps, to forget it; that may not be possible
for us--but to let it pass by as though it had never
been. If so, if you think so, dear Frank, do not have any
scruples on my account. What will be best for you, must be
best for me. Think what a reflection it would ever be to
me, to have been the ruin of one that I love so well.

Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my
promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter between
us is over. It will be painful for us at first; those
occasional meetings which must take place will distress
us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well
of each other, and why should we not be friends? This,
doubtless, cannot be done without inward wounds; but such
wounds are in God's hands, and He can cure them.

I know what your first feelings will be on reading this
letter; but do not answer it in obedience to first
feelings. Think over it, think of your father, and all you
owe him, of your old name, your old family, and of what
the world expects from you. [Mary was forced to put her
hand to her eyes, to save her paper from her falling
tears, as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word
for word, the arguments that had been used by Lady
Arabella.] Think of these things, coolly, if you can, but,
at any rate, without passion: and then let me have one
word in answer. One word will suffice.

I have but to add this: do not allow yourself to think
that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach
you for doing that which I myself suggest. [Mary's logic
in this was very false; but she was not herself aware of
it.] I will never reproach you either in word or thought;
and as for all others, it seems to me that the world
agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I
hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it.

God bless you, dearest Frank! I shall never call you
so again; but it would be a pretence were I to write
otherwise in this letter. Think o