and have long felt it a difficulty. I put
absolute faith in all you tell me of her--need I say that? But, if
indeed she looks forward to seeing me, in what manner has she conceived
that hope? I confess I did not think that her nature was of the kind
which can derive sufficient support from hope alone, hope which comes
of mere wish. It would be so very different if any word had even passed
between us which her memory could store up as encouragement. In that
case she would hope on for years, her own fidelity making it impossible
for her to suspect me of unfaithfulness. That, I believe, is in her
character. You remember that, in my raving, I accused myself to you and
said that I was conscious of having allowed her to read my thoughts. I
cannot now be sure whether that was true or not; I heartily wish I
could. Still, I am sure that I did not purposely lead her to think I
was in love with her. And, as things turned out, nothing subsequently
happened to give her that idea; at all events, nothing I ever knew of.
True, I made confession to Grail, but he would not have spoken of it to
Thyrza, even if he had had opportunity, which you are convinced he has
not. And you say it is equally certain that Lydia Trent would not help
her to such knowledge. We can only conclude that the fact of your
adopting her, as it were, makes her hope that she is being prepared for
something in the future.

'Well, I know it is not impossible that she has forgotten me, in the
lover's sense. I am not so conceited as to believe that a girl who has
once conceived a liking for me must necessarily hold me in her heart
for ever. There would be nothing strange, certainly nothing unworthy,
in her putting away all thought of one who, for anything she knew, had
never dreamed of loving her. I wonder what your own belief is? But do
not write about this. I shall see you very soon. I mean to be in
England just before the appointed day, and to come to you at once.

'The future puzzles me a little at times, and yet after all it will be
very simple. When a man marries the duties of life are suddenly made
very plain. Formerly it was my incessant question: What ought I to do
with myself, with my time, with my money? And of course, being what I
am and living in our age, I drove on the rocks of philanthropic
enterprise. No more risk of that. The one task before me is to make a
woman as happy as by all endeavour I may; to think of nothing in this
world until her heart is