You will not mind my writing so much about my sister Penelope? You like me to talk to you of what is about me, and uppermost in my thoughts, which is herself at present. She has been very good to me, and Max loves everyone whom I love, and everyone who loves me. I shall have your letter to-morrow morning. Good night! Theodora. CHAPTER IV. HIS STORY. |My dear Theodora:-- This is a line extra, written on receipt of yours, which was most welcome. I feared something had gone wrong with my little methodical girl. Do not keep strictly to your Dominical letter just now--write any day that you can. Tell me everything that is happening to you--you must, and ought. Nothing must occur to you or yours that I do not know. You are mine. Your last letter I do not answer in detail till the next shall come: not exactly from press of business; I would make time if I had it not; but from various other reasons, which you shall have by-and-by. Give me, if you remember it, the address of the person with whom Sarah Enfield is lodging. I suspect she is a woman of whom, by the desire of her nearest relative, I have been in search of for some time. But, should you have forgotten, do not trouble your sister about this. I will find out all I wish to learn some other way. Never apologise for, or hesitate at, writing to me about your family--all that is yours is mine. Keep your heart up about your sister Penelope: she is a good woman, and all that befals her will be for her good. Love her, and be patient with her continually. All your love for her and the rest takes nothing from what is mine, but adds thereto. Let me hear soon what is passing at Rockmount. I cannot come to you, and help you--would I could! My love! my love! Max Urquhart. There is little or nothing to say of myself this week, and what there was you heard yesterday. CHAPTER V. HER STORY. |My Dear Max:-- I write this in the middle of the night; there has been no chance for me during the day; nor, indeed, at all--until now. To-night, for the first time, Penelope has fallen asleep. I have taken the opportunity of stealing into the next room, to comfort--and you. My dear Max! Oh, if you knew! oh, if I could but come to you for one minute's rest, one minute's love!--There--I will not cry any more. It is much to be able to write to you; and blessed, infinitely blessed to know you are--what you are. Max, I have been weak, wicked of late; afraid of absence, which tries me sore, because I am not strong, and cannot stand up by myself as I used to do; afraid of death, which might tear you from me, or me from you, leaving the other to go mourning upon earth for ever. Now I feel that absence is nothing--death itself nothing, compared to one loss--that which has befallen my sister, Penelope.