it lay
all the next day. Unworthy post-chaise to bear so precious a manuscript!
She would journey herself to its destination to safeguard it, were it at
all possible. A thousand and one misgivings haunted her concerning the
safety of its arrival,--Stephen might have been transferred to some
distant point, the letter itself might possibly fall into awkward hands,
it might lay for months in the post bag, or fall into a dark corner of
some obscure tavern, the roads were infested with robbers,--horrible
thoughts, too horrible to record.

She did not know just how long it had taken her to compose it. The end
of the candle had burned quite out during the process, and she lay
deliberating over its contents and wondering just what else might be
added. Twice she was on the point of arising to assure herself on the
style of her confession, but each time she changed her mind, deciding to
yield to her earlier thought. The darkness seemed to envelop her in
fancy, and when she again opened her eyes the darkness had disappeared
before the light. It was morning and she arose for the day.

Hour by hour she waited to tell her mother. It was only right that she
should know, and she proposed to tell her all, even the very episode on
the river bank. She needed counsel, especially during these lonely
moments, and she felt that she could obtain it only by unfolding her
heart unreservedly. Mother would know; in fact, she must have suspected
the gravity of the affair. But how would she begin it? She longed for an
opening, but no opening presented itself.

The meaning of his addresses she saw, or she thought she saw. Stephen
loved her; his words were very effective. Indeed, he had made no mention
of marriage, nevertheless she sensed that his ulterior purpose had been
revealed to her fully. Perhaps it was this consummation which caused her
heart to stand suddenly still; perhaps it was the vision of the new life
which was opening before her. She would have to go away with him as his
wife, away from her home, away from her beloved father and mother. The
summers would come and go and she would be far distant from her own, in
far-off New York, perhaps, or some other city better adapted for the
career of a young man of ability. They might live in Philadelphia, near
to her home, yet not in it. That would be preferable, yet the future
could lend her no assurance. She would be his for life, and with him
would be obliged to begin a new manner of living.