she be happy, when
she had caused so much misery? And how could she write her letter
without expressing her happiness? She wished that her own identity
might be divided, so that she might rejoice over Walter's love with
the one moiety, and grieve with the other at all the trouble she had
brought upon the man whose love to her had been so constant. She sat
with the open letter in her hand, thinking over all this, till she
told herself at last that no further thinking could avail her. She
must bend herself over the table, and take the pen in her hand, and
write the words, let them come as they would.

Her letter, she thought, must be longer than his. He had a knack of
writing short letters; and then there had been so little for him to
say. He had merely a single question to ask; and, although he had
asked it more than once,--as is the manner of people in asking such
questions,--still, a sheet of note-paper loosely filled had sufficed.
Then she read it again. "If you bid me, I will be with you early next
week." What if she told him nothing, but only bade him come to her?
After all, would it not be best to write no more than that? Then she
took her pen, and in three minutes her letter was completed.

The Vicarage, Friday.

DEAREST, DEAREST WALTER,

Do come to me,--as soon as you can, and I will never send
you away again. I go to Loring to-morrow, and, of course,
you must come there. I cannot write it all; but I will
tell you everything when we meet. I am very sorry for your
cousin Gregory, because he was so good.

Always your own,

MARY.

But do not think that I want to hurry you. I have said
come at once; but I do not mean that so as to interfere
with you. You must have so many things to do; and if I get
one line from you to say that you will come, I can be ever
so patient. I have not been happy once since we parted.
It is easy for people to say that they will conquer their
feelings, but it has seemed to me to be quite impossible
to do it. I shall never try again.

As soon as the body of her letter was written, she could have
continued her postscript for ever. It seemed to her then as though
nothing would be more delightful than to let the words flow on with
full expressions of all her love and happiness. To write to him was
pleasant enough, as long as there came on her no need to mention Mr.
Gilmore's name.

That was to be her last evening at Bullhampton