Last night I left you so soon, or it seemed soon, and we said so little, that I never told you some things which you ought to have been made aware of at once; even before you were allowed to answer that question of mine. Forgive me. In my own defence let me say, that when I visited you yesterday, I meant only to have the sight of you--the comfort of your society--all I hoped or intended to win for years to come. But I was shaken out of all self-control--first by the terror of losing you, and then by a look in your sweet eyes. You know! It was to be, and it was. Theodora--gift of God!--may He bless you for shewing, just for that one moment, what there was in your heart towards me. My feelings towards you, you can guess--a little: the rest you must believe in. I cannot write about them.. The object of this letter is to tell you something which you ought to be told before I see you again. You may remember my once saying it was not likely I should ever marry. Such, indeed, was long my determination, and the reason was this. When I was a mere boy--just before Dallas died--there happened to me an event so awful, both in itself and its results, that it changed my whole character, darkened my life, turned me from a lively, careless, high-spirited lad, into a morbid and miserable man, whose very existence was a burthen to him for years. And though gradually, thank God! I recovered from this state, so as not to have an altogether useless life; still I never was myself again--never knew happiness, till I knew you. You came to me as unforeseen a blessing as if you had fallen from the clouds: first you interested, then you cheered me, then, in various ways, you brought light into my darkness, hope to my despair. And then I loved you. The same cause, which I cannot now fully explain, because I must first take a journey, but you shall know everything within a week or ten days--the same cause which has oppressed my whole life prevented my daring to win you. I always believed that a man circumstanced as I was, had no right ever to think of marriage. Some words of yours led me of late to change this opinion. I resolved, at some future time, to lay my whole history before you--as to a mere friend--to ask you the question whether or not, under the circumstances, I was justified in seeking any woman for my wife, and on your answer to decide either to try and make you love me, or only to love you, as I should have loved and shall for ever. What I then meant to tell you is still to be told. I do not dread the revelation as I once did: all things seem different to me.