My mind was almost made up as to the course I ought to pursue; and that of itself calmed me. I was soon able to sit down, and begin this letter to you; but got no further than the first three words, which, often as I have written them, look as new, strange, and precious as ever: "_My dear Theodora_." Dear,--God knows how infinitely! and mine--altogether and everlastingly mine. I felt this, even now. In the resolution I had made, no doubts shook me with respect to you; for you would bid me to do exactly what conscience urged--ay, even if you differed from me. You said once, with your arms round my neck, and your sweet eyes looking up steadfastly in mine:--"Max, whatever happens, always do what you think to be right, without reference to me. I would love you all the better for doing it, even if you broke my heart." I was pondering thus, planning how best to tell you of things so sore; when there came a knock to my room-door. Expecting no one but a servant, I said "Come in," and did not even look up--for every creature in the gaol must be familiar with my disgrace by this time. "Doctor Urquhart, do I intrude?" It was the chaplain. Theodora, if I have ever in my letters implied a word against him--for the narrowness and formality of his religious belief sometimes annoyed and were a hindrance to me--remember it not. Set down his name, the Reverend James Thorley, on the list of those whom I wish to be kept always in your tender memory, as those whom I sincerely honoured, and who have been most kind to me of all my friends. The old man spoke with great hesitation, and when I thanked him for coming, replied in the manner which I had many a time heard him use in convict cells:-- "I came, sir,' because I felt it to be my duty." "Mr. Thorley, whatever was your motive, I respect it, and thank you." And we remained silent--both standing--for he declined my offer of a chair. Noticing my preparations, he said, with some agitation, "Am I hindering your plans for departure? Are you afraid of the law?" "No." He seemed relieved; then, after a long examining look at me, quite broke down. "O Doctor, Doctor, what a terrible thing this is! who would have believed it of you!" It was very bitter, Theodora. When he saw that I attempted neither answer nor defence, the chaplain continued sternly:--"I come here, sir, not to pry into your secrets, but to fulfil my duty as a minister of God; to urge you to make confession, not unto me, but unto Him whom you have offended, whose eye you cannot escape, and whose justice sooner or later will bring you to punishment. But perhaps," seeing I bore with composure these and many similar arguments; alas, they were only too familiar! "perhaps I am labouring under a strange mistake? You do not look guilty, and I could as soon have believed in my own son's being a criminal, as you. For God's sake break this reserve, and tell me all." "It is not possible." There was a long pause, and then the old man said, sighing:--