It went hard, Max, indeed it did! till I considered--perhaps, to hear of people more miserable than herself, more wicked than Francis, might not do harm but good to my poor Penelope. So I was brave enough to take out my letter and read from it, (with reservations now and then, of course), about your daily work and the people concerned therein; all that interests me so much, and makes me feel happier and prouder than any mere "love-letter" written to or about myself. Penelope was interested too, both in the gaol and the hospital matters. They touched that practical, benevolent, energetic half of her, which till lately has made her papa's right hand in the parish. I saw her large black eyes brightening up, till an unfortunate name, upon which I fell unawares, changed all. Max, I am sure she had heard of Tom Turton. Francis knew him. When I stopped with some excuse, she bade me go on, so I was obliged to finish the miserable history. She then asked:-- "Is Turton dead?" I said, "No," and referred to the postscript where you say that both yourself and his poor old ruined father hope Tom Turton may yet live to amend his ways. Penelope muttered:-- "He never will. Better he died." I said Doctor Urquhart did not think so. She shook her head impatiently, exclaiming she was tired, and wished to hear no more, and so fell into one of her long, sullen silences, which sometimes last for hours. I wonder whether among the many cruel things she must be thinking about, she ever thinks, as I do often, what has become of Francis? Sometimes, puzzling over how best to deal with her, I have tried to imagine myself in her place, and consider what would have been my own feelings towards Francis now. The sharpest and most prominent would be the ever-abiding sense of his degradation,--he who was so dear, united to the constant terror of his sinking lower and lower to any depth of crime or shame. To think of him as a bad man, a sinner against heaven, would be tenfold worse than any sin or cruelty against me. Therefore, whether or not her love for him has died out, I cannot help thinking there must be times when Penelope would give anything for tidings of Francis Charteris. I wish you would find out whether he has left England, and then perhaps in some way or other I may let Penelope understand that he is safe away--possibly to begin a new and better life, in a new world. A new and better life. This phrase--Penelope might call it our "cant," yet what we solemnly believe in is surely not cant--brings me to something I have to tell you this week. For some reasons I am glad it did not occur until this week, that I might have time for consideration.