Max, if you remember, when you made to me that request about Lydia Cartwright, I merely answered "that I would endeavour to do as you wished;" as, indeed, I always would, feeling that my duty to you, even in the matter of "obedience," has already begun. I mean to obey, you see, but would rather do it with my heart, as well as my conscience. So, hardly knowing what to say to you, I just said this, and no more. My life has been so still, so safely shut up from the outside world, that there are many subjects I have never even thought about, and this was one. After the first great shock concerning Francis, I put it aside, hoping to forget it. When you revived it, I was at first startled; then I tried to ponder it over carefully, so as to come to a right judgment and be enabled to act in every way as became not only myself, Theodora Johnston, but--let me not be ashamed to say it--Theodora, Max Urquhart's wife. By-and-by, all became clear to me. My dear Max, I do not hesitate; I am not afraid. I have been only waiting opportunity; which at length came. Last Sunday I overheard my class--Penelope's that was, you know--whispering something among themselves, and trying to hide it from me; when I put the question direct, the answer was:-- "Please, Miss, Mrs. Cartwright and Lydia have come home." I felt myself grow hot as fire--I do now, in telling you. Only it must be borne--it must be told. Also another thing, which one of the bigger girls let out, with many titters, and never a blush,--they had brought a child with them. Oh, Max, the horror of shame and repulsion, and then the perfect anguish of pity that came over me! These girls of our parish, Lydia was one of them; if they had been taught better; if I had tried to teach them, instead of all these years studying or dreaming, thinking wholly of myself and caring not a straw about my fellow-creatures. Oh, Max--would that my life had been more like yours! It shall be henceforth. Going home through the village, with the sun shining on the cottages, of whose inmates I know no more than of the New Zealand savages,--on the group of ragged girls who were growing up at our very door, no one knows how, and no one cares--I made a vow to myself. I that have been so blessed--I that am so happy--yes, Max, happy! I will work with all my strength, while it is day. You will help me. And you will never love me the less for anything I feel--or do. I was going that very afternoon, to walk direct to Mrs. Cartwright's, when I remembered your charge, that nothing should be attempted without my father's knowledge an consent. I took the opportunity when he and I were sitting alone together--Penelope gone to bed. He was saying she looked better. He thought she might begin visiting in the district soon, if she were properly persuaded. At least she might take a stroll round the village. He should ask her to-morrow.