“I could not write before,” it said. “I am detained here by a friend’s illness; but now that I am thus far I send you just a line to say I shall be with you soon, and I shall never leave you again. I hate to think of it all. The fault was mine, and the suffering has been yours. But I love you, and only live to make you reparation.” “It is too much happiness to bear,” she said, with a sob. “It is all I wanted, that he should love me—I must write this minute, or he will wonder”—and she got out her blotting-case, just as she did at the hotel at Marseille—it seemed as if that scene had been a suggestion of this—and, kneeling down by the table, wrote— “I am here with Mrs. Baines, and she is dying. I have just—just had your letter. Oh, the joy of it! What can I say or do?—you know everything that is in my heart better than words can write it down.” She sealed it up; and, seizing her hat, went once round the garden, for the cottage seemed too small a house to hold so great a happiness as that which had come upon her. She looked up to the sky, and thought how blessed it was to be beneath it, and away at the larches and fir-trees, and wondered if he and she would ever walk between them. Something told her that they would if—if all came right, if she found that he loved her so much that he could not live without her. They would lead such ideal lives; they would do their very best for every one, and make so many people happy, and cover up the past with all the good that love would surely put it into their hearts to do. “It would be too much to bear,” she said to herself; “it is too much to think of yet. I will go back to my dear old lady, and comfort her.” Aunt Anne was much better for her interview with Mr. Boughton. The excitement had done her good, and some of her little consequential ways had returned with the knowledge of her wealth. “I am glad to see you, my love,” she said to Mrs. North; “I have many things to discuss with you if you will permit me to encroach on your good nature. Would you mind sitting down on the footstool again beside me, as you did yesterday?” The maid had lifted her on to the old-fashioned sofa at the foot of the bed. She was propped up with pillows, and looked so well and comfortable it seemed almost possible that she might live. “I will,” Mrs. North answered, still overcome with her own thoughts—“I will sit at your feet, and receive your royal commands. But first permit me to say that you are looking irresistible—my lavender ribbons give you a most ravishing appearance.” “You are in excellent spirits,” Aunt Anne said, with a pleased smile; “and so am I,” she added. “It has done me a world of good to hear that William Rammage’s iniquitous intentions have been frustrated.” “I trust he is aware of it,” Mrs. North answered, “and that his soul is delightfully vexed by the enterprising Satan.” “My love,” said the old lady, with a shocked wink, “you hardly understand the purport of your own words.”