You see how my mind keeps wandering purposelessly, having nothing to communicate. I had indeed, for some time, avoided writing here at all. And I have been, and am, necessarily occupied, laying the groundwork of that new plan of life which I explained to you. Its whole bearing you did not see, noe did I intend you should; though your own words originated it; lit it with a ray of hope so exquisite that I could follow on cheerfully for indefinite years. It only lasted an hour or two; and then your father's words--though, heaven be praised, they were not yours--plunged me into darkness again; a darkness out of which I had never crept, had I been still the morbid coward I was a year ago. As it was, you little guessed all the thoughts you shut in with me behind the study door, till your light foot came back to it--that night. Nor that in the interval I had had strength to weigh all circumstances, and form a definite deliberate plan, firm as I believe my heart to be--since I have known you. I have resolved, in consequence of some words of yours, to change my whole scheme of life. That is, I will at some future day, whether near or far, circumstances must decide, submit to you every event of my history, and then ask you dispassionately as a friend, to decide if I shall still live on according to my purpose, in prospect of _the end_, or, shaking off the burthen of it, shall trust in God's mercy, consider all things past and gone, and myself at liberty like any other, to love, and woo, and marry. Afterwards, according to your decision, may or may not follow that other question--the very hope and suspense of which is like passing into a new life, through the gate of death. Your father said distinctly--but I will not repeat it. It is enough to make me dread to win my best blessing, lest I might also win her father's curse. To evoke that curse, knowingly to sow dissension between a man and his own daughter, is an awful thing. I dare not do it. During his life-time I must wait. So, for the present, farewell, innocent child! for no child can be more innocent and happy than you. But you will not always be a child. If you do not marry--and you seem of an opposite mind to your sisters in that particular--you will, years hence, be a woman, no longer young, perhaps little sought after, for you are not beautiful to most eyes, nor from your peculiar temperament do you please many people. By then, you may have known care and sorrow--will be an orphan and alone. I should despise myself for reckoning up these possibilities, did I not know that in so far as any human hand can shield you from trouble, you shall be shielded, that while one poor life lasts, you never shall be left desolate.