e having--at any rate, the world thinks so, or why
else do they so scramble for them? I will not scramble for
them; but if they come in my way, why, I may probably pick
them up.

This will be odious to you. I know it will. A
potato-paring and a true heart are your beau-ideal for
this world. I am made of viler stuff. I have had the true
heart, and see what I have made of it!

You will answer me, of course. I could find it in my heart
to beg you not to do so, only now I could not afford to
think that you were cold to me. I know you will write to
me; but, pray, pray do not advise me to submit myself to
him under the idea that a reconciliation is possible. A
reconciliation is not possible, and I will not submit
myself to him. I know I speak the truth when I say that
our marriage is not to be desired. I acknowledge his
merits; I confess his superiority: but these very merits,
this great superiority, make it impossible that I should
suit him as a wife.

On that matter I have made up my mind. I will never marry
him. I only say this to deter you from wasting your energy
in endeavouring to bring us again together. I know very
well that I shall not be asked--that his mind is equally
firm.

And now, good-bye. You know all my heart, and, as far
as I can tell them, all my feelings. A long letter from
you will give me much delight if you will comply with my
earnest request.

This letter has been a very selfish one, for it is all
about myself. But you will forgive that now. God bless
you.

Your affectionate friend,

CAROLINE.

P.S. I have said nothing to aunt Mary, except to tell
her that the match is broken off; and she has kindly--so
kindly, abstained from any questions.

Adela Gauntlet was all alone when she received this letter at West
Putford. In these days she generally was all alone. That she should
answer it, answer it at once, was of course certain. But how should
she answer it? Her mind was soon made up, with many tears, partly
for her friend and partly for herself. Caroline's happiness had been,
nay, probably still was, in her own hands, and she was going to throw
it away. For herself, happiness had never been within her own reach.
"Be his menial servant!" she repeated to herself, as she read and
re-read the letter. "Yes; of course she should if he required it. It
would be for her to make him know that