‘MY DEAREST AND ONLY BELOVED,--Before leaving this place I write to explain my conduct of the last six weeks, which must have seemed cold and unworthy, and to explain my course in the future, which may offend her for whom I would sacrifice most things rather than offend. I have made up my mind to leave Little Yafford. I have made up my mind never to marry. Reasons which I cannot enter upon have urged me to this resolution. I have loved you deeply, fondly, with an unmeasured and absorbing love, but I have schooled myself to surrender the hope of a happiness which made life very fair and sweet, and which I once deemed not incompatible with my calling and the duties that belong to it. Forgive me, Beatrix, for the pain this letter may cause you--forgive me for the part I have had in your life. Had Providence willed for me to find you unshackled and poor we might have been happy. As it is, I am assured that only misery, remorse, and regret would follow our union. May God bless you. May He pardon and pity you, in all your need of pardon and pity. The best of us need both at His hands. I take up my pilgrim’s staff, with a heavy heart, and go my way, cheered by no promise in the future, sustained only by the hope of doing some good work among my fellow-men before I die. Oh, Beatrix, if you could know how my heart yearns towards you--how my whole being is rent as I write this cold farewell--you would pity me as I pity you--for I have need of all your pity. I will write no more. Words are no balm for a real and lasting sorrow. Farewell, Beatrix, and whatever you may think of me, believe at least that you are the only woman I have ever loved--the only woman I can ever love. Yours in deepest sorrow, CYRIL CULVERHOUSE.’ This ended all. It was very clear to her that her lover thought as Little Yafford thought. In his eyes too she was a guilty wretch, for whom he could feel nothing but pity. ‘He was the only creature who ever really loved me since my mother died,’ she thought, ‘and now he has deserted me.’ CHAPTER X. ‘ALAS! I HAVE NOR HOPE NOR HEALTH.’ BELLA SCRATCHELL, tripping to the Park one frosty morning, and entering Mrs. Piper’s sitting-room, all beaming with smiles, like a small edition of Aurora, found the invalid in tears, and sniffing feebly at a bottle of aromatic vinegar. ‘Dear Mrs. Piper, have you had one of your bad headaches?’ ‘No, my dear, it is not my bodily health, but my spiritual condition that affects me. I feel as if I had been holding on by an anchor, and somebody had taken the anchor away and left me tossing on a stormy sea. I had such faith in him. He put things in a clearer light than Mr. Mowler. The Reverend Josiah Mowler is a sainted creature--and I shall always say so, but he is not equal to Mr. Culverhouse. He hasn’t the inspiration. Oh, Bella, I am grateful to you for having brought that good man here, but I feel it hard to lose him, just as I had pinned my faith upon his teaching.’