And here I have to say to you, both from my sister and myself, that if Francis desires to make Lydia Cartwright his wife, and she is willing, tell them both that if she will come direct from the gaol to Rockmount, we will receive her kindly, provide everything suitable for her (since Francis must be very poor, and they will have to begin housekeeping on the humblest scale), and take care that she is married in comfort and credit. Also, say that former things shall never be remembered against her, but that she shall be treated henceforward with the respect due to Francis's wife; in some things, poor loving soul! a better wife than he deserves. So he left us. Whether in this world he and Penelope will ever meet again, who knows? He seemed to have a foreboding that they never will, for, in parting, he asked, hesitatingly, if she would shake hands? She did so, looking earnestly at him,--her first love, who, had he been true to himself and to her, might have been her love for ever. Then I saw her eye wander down to the little head which nestled on his shoulder. "Will you kiss my boy, Penelope?" My sister leaned over, and touched Franky's forehead with her lips. "God bless him! God bless you all?" These were her last words, and however long both may live, I have a conviction that they will be her last words--to Francis Charteris. He went back to the cottage; and through the rosy spring twilight, with a strangely solemn feeling, as if we were entering upon a new spring in another world, Penelope and I drove home. And now, Max, I have told you all about these. About myself--No, I'll not try to deceive you; God knows how true my heart is, and how sharp and sore is this pain. Dear Max, write to me;--if there is any trouble, I can bear it; any wrong--supposing Max could do me wrong--I'll forgive. I fear nothing, and nothing has power to grieve me, so long as you hold me fast, as I hold you. Your faithful Theodora. P.S.--A wonderful, wonderful thing--it only happened last night. It hardly feels real yet. Max, last night, after I had done reading, papa mentioned your name of his own accord. He said, Penelope in asking his leave, as we thought it right to do before we sent that message to Lydia, had told him the whole story about your goodness to Francis. He then enquired abruptly how long it was since I had seen Doctor Urquhart? I told him, never since that day in the library--now a year ago. "And when do you expect to see him?" "I do not know." And all the bitterness of parting--the terrors lest life's infinite chances should make this parting perpetual--the murmurs that will rise, why hundreds and thousands who care little for one another should be always together, whilst we--we--Oh Max! it all broke out in a sob, "Papa, papa, how _can_ I know?" My father looked at me as if he would read me through. "You are a good girl, and an honourable. He is honourable too. He would never persuade a child to disobey her father." "No, never!"