ight I can remember only your last word to me when
we parted. I cannot address you coldly, as though half a stranger. Thus
long I have kept silence about everything but the outward events of my
life; now, in telling you of something that has happened, I must speak
as I think.

'Early this evening I was surprised by a visit from Christian Moxey--a
name you know. He came to tell me that his sister (she of whom I once
spoke to you) was dead, and had bequeathed to me a large sum of money.
He said that it represented an income of eight hundred pounds.

'I knew nothing of Miss Moxey's illness, and the news of her will came
to me as a surprise. In word or deed, I never sought more than her
simple friendship--and even _that_ I believed myself to have forfeited.

'If I were to refuse this money, it would be in consequence of a
scruple which I do not in truth respect. Christian Moxey tells me that
his sister's desire was to enable me to live the life of a free man;
and if I have any duty at all in the matter, surely it does not
constrain me to defeat her kindness. No condition whatever is attached.
The gift releases me from the necessity of leading a hopeless
existence--leaves me at liberty to direct my life how I will.

'I wish, then, to put aside all thoughts of how this opportunity came
to me, and to ask you if you are willing to be my wife.

'Though I have never written a word of love, my love is unchanged. The
passionate hope of three years ago still rules my life. Is _your_ love
strong enough to enable you to disregard all hindrances? I cannot of
course know whether, in your sight, dishonour still clings to me, or
whether you understand me well enough to have forgiven and forgotten
those hateful things in the past. Is it yet too soon? Do you wish me
still to wait, still to prove myself? Is your interest in the free man
less than in the slave? For my life has been one of slavery and
exile--exile, if you know what I mean by it, from the day of my birth.

'Dearest, grant me this great happiness! We can live where we will. I
am not rich enough to promise all the comforts and refinements to which
you are accustomed, but we should be safe from sordid anxieties. We can
travel; we can make a home in any European city. It would be idle to
speak of the projects and ambitions that fill my mind--but surely I may
do something worth doing, win some position among intellectual men of
which you would not be ashamed. You yourself urged