I am hardly the same man that I was twelve hours ago. Twelve hours ago I had never told you what you are to me--never had you in my arms--never read the love in your dear eyes--oh, child, do not ever be afraid or ashamed of letting me see you love me, unworthy as I am. If you had not loved me, I should have drifted away into perdition--I mean, I might have lost myself altogether, so far as regards this world. That is not likely now. You will save me, and I shall be so happy that I shall be able to make you happy. We will never be two again--only one. Already you feel like a part of me: and it seems as natural to write to you thus as if you had been mine for years. Mine. Some day you will find out all that is sealed up in the heart of a man of my age and of my disposition--when the seal is once broken. Since, until I have taken my journey I cannot speak to your father, it seems right that my next visit to you should be only that of a friend. Whether after having read this letter, which at once confesses so much and so little, you think me worthy even of that title, your first look will decide. I shall find out, without need of your saying one word. I shall probably come on Monday, and then not again; to meet you only as a friend, used to be sufficiently hard; to meet you with this uncertainty overhanging me, would be all but impossible. Besides, honour to your father compels this absence and silence, until my explanations are made. Will you forgive me? Will you trust me? I think you will. I hope you have minded my “orders,” rested all evening and retired early? I hope on Monday I may see a rose on your cheeks--a tiny, delicate, winter-rose? That poor little thin cheek, it grieves my heart. You _must_ get strong. If by your manner you show that this letter has changed your opinion of me, that you desire yesterday to be altogether forgotten, I shall understand it, and obey. Remember, whatever happens, whether you are ever my own or not, that you are the only woman I ever wished for my wife; the only one I shall ever marry. Yours, Max. Urquhart. I read his letter many times over. Then I rose and dressed myself, carefully, as if it had been my marriage morning. He loved me; I was the only woman he had ever wished for his wife. It was in truth my marriage morning. Coming downstairs, Mrs. Granton met me, all delight at my having risen so soon. “Such an advance! we must be sure and tell Dr. Urquhart. By the bye, did he not leave a note or message early this morning?” “Yes; he will probably call on Monday.” She looked surprised that I did not produce the note, but made no remark. And I, two days before, I should have been scarlet and tongue-tied; but now things were quite altered. I was his chosen, his wife; there was neither hypocrisy nor deceit in keeping a secret between him and me. We belonged to one another, and the rest of the world had nothing to do with us.