‘MY DEAR FRANK,—Forgiveness! Who is to be forgiven? Not you. You believed you loved me, but I doubted my love, and I know now that no true love for you exists. We must part, and part forever. Whatever wrong may have been done, marriage to avoid disgrace would be a wrong to both of us infinitely greater. I owe you an expiation; your release is all I can offer, and it is insufficient. I can only plead that I was deaf and blind. By some miracle, I cannot tell how, my ears and eyes are opened, and I hear and see. It is not the first time in my life that the truth has been revealed to me suddenly, supernaturally, I may say, as if in a vision, and I know the revelation is authentic. There must be no wavering, no half-measures, and I absolutely forbid another letter from you. If one arrives I must, for the sake of my own peace and resolution, refuse to read it. You have simply to announce to your father that the engagement is at an end, and give no reasons.—Your faithful friend ‘MADGE HOPGOOD.’ Another letter did come, but Madge was true to her word, and it was returned unopened. For a long time Frank was almost incapable of reflection. He dwelt on an event which might happen, but which he dared not name; and if it should happen! Pictures of his father, his home his father’s friends, Fenmarket, the Hopgood household, passed before him with such wild rapidity and intermingled complexity that it seemed as if the reins had dropped out of his hands and he was being hurried away to madness. He resisted with all his might this dreadful sweep of the imagination, tried to bring himself back into sanity and to devise schemes by which, although he was prohibited from writing to Madge, he might obtain news of her. Her injunction might not be final. There was but one hope for him, one possibility of extrication, one necessity—their marriage. It _must_ be. He dared not think of what might be the consequences if they did not marry. Hitherto Madge had given no explanation to her mother or sister of the rupture, but one morning—nearly two months had now passed—Clara did not appear at breakfast. ‘Clara is not here,’ said Mrs Hopgood; ‘she was very tired last night, perhaps it is better not to disturb her.’ ‘Oh, no! please let her alone. I will see if she still sleeps.’ Madge went upstairs, opened her sister’s door noiselessly, saw that she was not awake, and returned. When breakfast was over she rose, and after walking up and down the room once or twice, seated herself in the armchair by her mother’s side. Her mother drew herself a little nearer, and took Madge’s hand gently in her own. ‘Madge, my child, have you nothing to say to your mother?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Cannot you tell me why Frank and you have parted? Do you not think I ought to know something about such an event in the life of one so close to me?’