A little desk on a side-table, the common property of himself, his mother, and sister, was soon opened, and materials found. Then, in his own uncial characters, that always tended hopefully upward, and thus left a triangle of untouched paper at the bottom of every sheet, Will wrote a letter of two folios, or eight complete pages. In this he repeated the points of his conversation with Phoebe's father, told her to be patient, and announced that, satisfied of her unfailing love and steadfastness through all, he was about to pass into the wider world, and carve his way to prosperity and fortune. He hid particulars from her, but mentioned that Clement Hicks would forward any communications. Finally he bid her keep a stout heart and live contented in the certainty of ultimate happiness. He also advised Phoebe to forgive her father. "I have already done it, honor bright," he wrote; "'t is a wise man's part to bear no malice, especially against an old grey body whose judgment 'pears to be gone bad for some reason." He also assured Phoebe that he was hers until death should separate them; in a postscript he desired her to break his departure softly to his mother if opportunity to do so occurred; and, finally, he was not ashamed to fill the empty triangles on each page with kisses, represented by triangles closely packed. Bearing this important communication, Will walked out again into the night, and soon his letter awaited Phoebe in the usual receptacle. He felt therein himself, half suspecting a note might await him, but there was nothing. He hesitated for a moment, then climbed the gate into Monks Barton farmyard, went softly and stood in the dark shadow of the mill-house. The moon shone full upon the face of the dwelling, and its three fruit-trees looked as though painted in profound black against the pale whitewash; while Phoebe's dormer-window framed the splendour of the reflected sky, and shone very brightly. The blind was down, and the maiden behind it had been asleep an hour or two; but Will pictured her as sobbing her heart out still. Perhaps he would never see her again. The path he had chosen to follow might take him over seas and through vast perils; indeed, it must do so if the success he desired was to be won. He felt something almost like a catch in his throat as he turned away and crossed the sleeping river. He glanced down through dreaming glades and saw one motionless silver spot on the dark waters beneath the alders. Sentiment was at its flood just then, and he spoke a few words under his breath. "'Tis thicky auld Muscovy duck, roostin' on his li'l island; poor lone devil wi' never a mate to fight for nor friend to swim along with. Worse case than mine, come to think on it!" Then an emotion, rare enough with him, vanished, and he sniffed the night air and felt his heart beat high at thoughts of what lay ahead.