“MY DEAR ANNIE,” it began, like the other, “your reply to my former letter has hurt me keenly. I cannot bear the thought of your going out into the world alone to earn your own living. I hoped that you would be content to remain in your own home, and let me provide for you as a brother would do. But since you refuse—how cold and dignified your refusal was, too!—I am forced to break all barriers down and make a confession that for years I had yearned to make and dare not. Annie, you _must not_ become a governess; I should be wretched to think of you in such a situation. If you will not let me take care of you there at home, in a friendly way, you _must come to me here_; for, darling, I love you. I have always loved you, ever since we played together, as children by the brook near the old mill, sailing our tiny ships side by side, and promised each other that, when we were older, we would be married, and make a voyage round the world together. Come and redeem that promise to me _now_, Annie, darling. Do not hesitate because it will involve the sacrifice of the fortune bequeathed to me, under certain conditions, for I cannot—I _will_ not—marry my Cousin Estelle while I love another as I love you; and what is all the wealth of the world compared with our happiness? I am doing finely here in the mines. In a few years, at this rate, I shall be worth even more than I shall have to forfeit by this step, so I will gladly relinquish every dollar to Estelle for you, my darling. “Annie, I believe that you love me—I have long believed it—and I have yearned to make this confession, and to hear a similar one from your lips, for a long, long time. Had I not been hampered by Uncle Jabez’s will, and an unworthy vacillation on account of it, I should have told you this that last delightful summer we spent together. But I have passed the Rubicon now, so do not ruin all my hopes. I am sorry that I cannot come to you, my own love. But my presence is absolutely necessary here, and I cannot leave for such a long trip; but if your heart responds to mine—if you will come to me and give yourself to me, I will meet you on the way, at Kansas City, and from there I will take my little wife to her own home among the mountains of New Mexico, where we will be all in all to each other. You will not mind the isolation for a little while, will you, love, until I can make my fortune, when we will return again to our own dear sunny South? Annie, _will_ you trust me? _Will_ you come? If you do not, I believe my life will be ruined. Do not think, for a moment, that I shall ever regret Jabez Mapleson’s money. I _shall_ not if I can have you. Judge me by your own heart.