"Stay, Theodora,--you have something to tell _me_ first. Are you better? Have you been growing stronger daily? You are sure?" "Quite sure. Now--tell me." He tried to speak once or twice, vainly. At last he said:-- "I--I wrote you a letter." "I never got it." "No; I did not mean you should until my death. But my mind has changed. You shall have it now. I have carried it about with me, on the chance of meeting you, these four days. I wanted to give it to you--and--to look at you. Oh, my child, my child." After a little while, he gave me the letter, begging me not to open it till I was alone at night. "And if it should shock you--break your heart?" "Nothing will break my heart." "You are right, it is too pure and good. God will not suffer it to be broken. Now, good-bye." For we had reached the gate of Bock-mount. It had never struck me before that I had to bid him adieu here, that he did not mean to go in with me to dinner; and when he refused, I felt it very much. His only answer was, for the second time, "that I did not know what I was saying." It was now nearly dark, and so misty that I could hardly breathe. Doctor Urquhart insisted on my going in immediately, tied my veil close under my chin, and then hastily untied it. "Love, do you love me?" He has told me afterwards, he forgot then for the time being, every circumstance that was likely to part us; everything in the whole world but me. And I trust I was not the only one who felt that it is those alone who? loving as we did, are everything to one another who have most strength to part. When I came indoors, the first person I met was papa, looking quite bright and pleased; and his first question was:-- "Where is Doctor Urquhart? Penelope said Doctor Urquhart was coming here." I hardly know what was done during that evening, or whether they blamed Max or not. All my care was how best to keep his secret, and literally to obey him concerning it. Of course, I never named his letter, nor made any attempt to read it till I had bidden good night to them all, and smiled at Penelope's grumbling over my long candles and my large fire, "as if I meant to sit up all night." Yes, I had taken all these precautions in a quiet, solemn kind of way, for I did not know what was before me, and I must not fall ill if I could help. I was Max's own personal property. How cross she was that night, poor Penelope! It was the last time she has ever scolded me. For some things, Penelope has felt this more than anyone could, except papa, for she is the only one of us who has a clear recollection of Harry. Now, his name is written, and I can tell it--the awful secret I learned from Max's letter, which no one except me must ever read. My Max killed Harry. Not intentionally--when he was out of himself and hardly accountable for what he did; in a passion of boyish fury, roused by great cruelty and wrong; but--he killed him. My brother's death, which we believed to be accidental, was by Max's hand.