‘I believe I had something else to say to you. I am almost certain that I sat down with a distinct impression that I was going to write to you about something. Oh yes, here it is. I suppose you hear regularly from Miss Dixon, and so, of course, you will know that a little while ago, she returned from her long sojourn in Wensleydale. I heard she had gone there for the pure air and all that, and because her father’s relations wanted to have her, and because she did not feel very strong at the end of the winter. You know, I have always thought her a very delicate girl, but now—I do not think it right to conceal it from you—she looks very ill indeed. Her cheeks have fallen in; her face is pale; she is the shadow of what she was. I hate to write this; in fact, I was so unwilling to write it, that I scribbled all the rubbish which premises it, in the hope that, somehow, I might get out of this; but I cannot. It would be no friend’s part; and what blame would you not have the right to put upon me, if I let it pass by without telling you. She is very ill, I am certain. If I were on different terms with them, I should go to Mrs. Dixon, and tell her she ought to have advice for her. I keep wishing they would summon me, or Rowntree; for they surely must see themselves the change in her. I fancy she ought to go to a warmer climate, or rather, she ought never to have gone to Yorkshire. That part of Wensleydale where she was, is piercingly cold—worse than this. It is in a valley, but the valley itself is very much elevated. I do not want to make you more uneasy than is necessary. We must recollect that this is the “merry month” of east winds, bronchitis, and pleurisy, and many a delicate girl withers up during May and comes out blooming again in June. Let us hope this is such a case. Sleep takes possession of me; therefore, good night!’ This letter had veritably been written in the way described in it. Michael had beheld Ada, and the change in her; and as Roger never, in any of his pretty frequent letters, mentioned any rumour of the illness of his betrothed, his friend reluctantly came to the conclusion that he knew nothing about it, and that to leave him in such a state of ignorance was utterly impossible for him. All the first part of his letter he had written ramblingly, half his mind occupied with a wonder whether he could not absolve himself from the moral necessity which he felt upon him, of speaking about Ada. He could not, and the result was the composition above, which was written on a Wednesday night, and despatched on a Thursday morning. Michael did not expect any immediate answer to it, but went about his business, as usual.