aid in
doing this? That had been her main thought, and so thinking, she had
written this letter, filled to overflowing with womanly craft.

And her craft was nearly successful; but only nearly; that was all.
Caroline sat in her solitude and cried over this letter till her
eyes were weary with tears. She strove, strove valiantly to take
her friend's advice; strove to do so in spite of all her former
protestations. She got pen and ink and sat herself down to write the
letter of humiliation; but the letter would not be written; it was
impossible to her; the words would not form themselves: for two days
she strove, and then she abandoned the task as for ever hopeless. And
thus this third short epistle must be laid before the reader.

"I cannot do it, Adela. It is not in my nature. You could do it,
because you are good, and high, and pure. Do not judge others by
yourself. I cannot do it, and will not madden myself by thinking of
it again. Good-bye; God bless you. If I could cure your grief I would
come to you; but I am not fit. God in his own time will cure yours,
because you are so pure. I could not help you, nor you me; I had
better, therefore, remain where I am. A thousand thousand kisses. I
love you so now, because you and you only know my secret. Oh, if you
should not keep it! But I know you will; you are so true."

This was all. There was no more; no signature. "May God help them
both!" said Adela as she read it.

CHAPTER IX.

BIDDING HIGH.

I hope to press all the necessary records of the next three or four
months into a few pages. A few pages will be needed in order that we
may know how old Mr. Bertram behaved when he heard of this rupture
between his nephew and his granddaughter.

George, when he found himself back in town, shut himself up in his
chambers and went to work upon his manuscript. He, too, recognized
the necessity of labour, in order that the sorrow within his heart
might thus become dull and deadened.

But it was deep, true sorrow--to him at some periods almost
overwhelming: he would get up from his desk during the night, and
throwing himself on the sofa, lie there writhing in his agony. While
he had known that Caroline was his own, he had borne his love more
patiently than does many a man of less intensity of feeling. He had
been much absent from her; had not abridged those periods of absence
as he might have done; had, indeed, been but an indifferent lover, if
eagerness and _empres