I would not have mentioned such a story to you, but that long ere you read these letters, if ever you do read them, you will have learnt that such sad and terrible facts do exist, and that even the purest woman dare not ignore them. Also, who knows, but in the infinite chances of life, you may have opportunities of doing in other cases, what I would fain have done, and one day entreated your sister to do--to use every effort for the redemption of this girl, who, from all I hear, must have been unusually pretty, affectionate and simple-minded. Her poor old mother being a little comforted, I learnt tidings of you. Three weeks of fever and ague, or something, like it, nobody quite knew what; they, your family, had no notion till lately that there was anything ailing you. No--they never would. They would let you go on in your silent, patient way, sick or well, happy or sorry, till you suddenly sunk, and then they would turn round astonished:--“Really, why did she not say she was ill? Who would have guessed there was anything the matter with her?” And I--I who knew every change in your little face, every mood in that strange, quaint, variable spirit--I have let you slip, and been afraid to take care of you. Coward! I proceeded at once to Rockmount, but learnt from the gardener that your father and sister were out, and “Miss Dora was ill in her room.” So I waited, hung about the road for an hour or more, till at last it struck me to seek for information at the Cedars. Mrs. Granton was glad to see me. She told me all about her son's departure--gentle heart! you have kept his secret--and, asking if I had seen you lately, poured out in a stream all her anxieties concerning you. So, something must be done for you--something sudden and determined. They may all think what they like--act as they choose--and so shall I. I advised Mrs. Granton to fetch you at once to the Cedars, by persuasion if she could; if not, by compulsion--bringing you there as if for a drive and keeping you. She has a will, that good old lady, when she sees fit to use it--and she has considerable influence with your father. She said, she thought she could persuade him to let her have you, and nurse you. “And if the poor child herself is obstinate--she has been rather variable of temper lately--I may say that you ordered me to bring her here? She has a great respect for your opinion. I may tell her I acted by Dr. Urquhart's desire?” I considered a moment, and then said she might. We arranged everything as seemed best for your removal--a serious undertaking for an invalid. You, an invalid, my bright-eyed, lightfooted, moorland girl! I do not think Mrs. Granton had a shadow of suspicion. She thanked me continually, in her warm-hearted fashion for my “great kindness.” Kindness! She also begged me to call immediately--as _her_ friend, lest I might have any professional scruples of etiquette about interfering with Doctor Black.