since
she had made it known that she was no longer engaged to her cousin.
In her former letter Mrs. Fenwick had simply expressed her opinion
that Mary had done rightly, and had, at the same time, promised that
she would write again, more at length, when the passing by of a few
weeks should have so far healed the first agony of the wound, as to
make it possible for her to speak of the future. Mary, dreading this
second letter, had done nothing to elicit it; but at last it came.
And as it had some effect on Mary Lowther's future conduct, it shall
be given to the reader:--

Bullhampton Vicarage, March 12, 186--.

DEAREST MARY,

I do so wish you were here, if it were only to share our
misery with us. I did not think that so small a thing as
the building of a wretched chapel could have put me out so
much, and made me so uncomfortable as this has done. Frank
says that it is simply the feeling of being beaten,--the
insult not the injury, which is the grievance; but they
both rankle with me. I hear the click of the trowel every
hour, and though I never go near the front gate, yet I
know that it is all muddy and foul with brickbats and
mortar. I don't think that anything so cruel and unjust
was ever done before; and the worst of it is that Frank,
though he hates it just as much as I do, does preach
such sermons to me about the wickedness of caring for
small evils. 'Suppose you had to go to it every Sunday
yourself,' he said the other day, trying to make me
understand what a real depth of misery there is in the
world. 'I shouldn't mind that half so much,' I answered.
Then he bade me try it,--which wasn't fair because he
knows I can't. However, they say it will all tumble down
because it has been built so badly.

I have been waiting to hear from you, but I can understand
why you should not write. You do not wish to speak of your
cousin, or to write without speaking of him. Your aunt has
written to me twice, as doubtless you know, and has told
me that you are well, only more silent than heretofore.
Dearest Mary, do write to me, and tell me what is in
your heart. I will not ask you to come to us,--not
yet,--because of our neighbour; but I do think that if you
were here I could do you good. I know so well, or fancy
that I know so well, the current in which your thoughts
are running! You have had a wound, and think that
t