"As you are the kindest person in the world, I am sure you
will not be angry with me for giving you a little trouble. Do
me the kindness to take this letter yourself to Henry Lovell,
and give it into his own hands; and do not mention to any one
that I have entrusted you with this commission, as it would
defeat my purpose if it was known that I had written to him,
or heard from him, in reply. He will probably entrust you with
his answer; and I cannot say how much obliged to you I shall
be for undertaking this little commission.

"Yours, dear Mrs. Hatton, very truly,

"E.M."

As I sealed these two letters and directed the cover to Mrs.
Hatton, I felt that for the first time I was stooping to
positive artifice, and that, too, at the very moment when
Edward's words were still ringing in my ears. Disgusted with
myself, I threw down my pen; and, turning my flushed cheeks
and aching head to the window, I tried to catch the night
breeze, which was gently rustling among the leaves of the
catalpas. When I went to sleep that night, it was to dream
over and over again that I was reading Henry's answer to my
letter; sometimes it was such as to drive me to despair;
sometimes it exceeded my most sanguine hopes; each time that I
awoke I glanced at the table on which mine was lying to
convince myself that nothing real had hitherto justified these
alternations of fear and hope--that made me feel in the
morning as if I had gone through a life of agitation, instead
of a few hours of restless sleep.

When my maid came in to call me I told her to put my letter
into the post-bag, and sent her to inquire how Edward had
passed the night. The answer which she brought me was, that
the fever still continued strong, but that Mr. Middleton
seemed calmer and more composed than the day before; "more
comfortable like," was her expression.

I dressed myself hastily, and finding that my aunt was not yet
awake, I went down into the garden, and walked to the spot
where my fate had been sealed, for good or for evil I know not
yet. As I looked upon the bank where Edward had placed me out
of reach of so appalling a danger--as I stood again on that
spot where I had seen his blood on the ground--as I knelt
against the bench where we had sat together, and hastily
murmured over the form of prayer, which I was accustomed to
utter more as a sort of charm than as a direct address to
God--I felt _then_ that to part with him would be, after all,
the wor