It was at this juncture of affairs, when Gerald was at home, not long before returning to Oxford for the conclusion of his academical life, that he received a letter written by Miss Venniker herself in her mother’s name, asking him to spend a few days of his vacation at Helmsbury. ‘Harry says he hopes so much you will come,’ she wrote. ‘It is his birthday on Thursday week, and the tenants are going to have a dinner. Do come, if you can.’ Gerald debated with himself very much what he ought to do. He felt in his own mind that the intensity of his love, against which he believed himself to have striven so conscientiously, was getting the mastery of him. If he went to Helmsbury, there was great danger that he would do something or say something irrevocable. He would bring matters to a crisis. The veil would be torn away from his heart. He wished, and yet he did not wish, that Lady Venniker’s invitation had not come. To stay away from Helmsbury was pain, to go there was peril. His happiness in being near Miss Venniker was that supreme happiness which is akin to misery. He cherished the half proud, half regretful feeling of carrying in his breast a secret which was known to nobody, and which, if it were known, might alter his whole relation to his surroundings. It seemed a wrong return for the blessing of his second home, which had at one most critical time been his first or only home, that he should live there and associate with its inmates on a false footing. It occurred to him in his difficulty to consult his father as to the course which it would be right to take, but eventually he did not consult him. At last, after a wakeful night, he resolved to take the bold and honourable course of declaring his love. He would shiver no more on the brink of the deep waters, but would plunge in. What would the issue be? He sat down to write. He had just taken up the pen when Mrs. Eversley came into the room and asked him if he would mind getting up for a moment, as she must look for something in one of the drawers of the table at which he was writing. The two letters which follow will explain themselves. They will serve better than any elaborate description of sacred feelings which are in their nature indescribable. Kestercham Vicarage, September 4, 186-.