Forgive me, dear Lady Venniker--you have been my best friend on earth--for my presumption, if it is wrong. I can only say I have fought against it, and I cannot help it. It has saved me from the loss of all that makes life sacred. Perhaps it will cost me now the loss of all that makes life dear. I do not forget the difference between her and myself. I have nothing to offer her--nothing that is worthy of her acceptance. If you were not so good you would be angry with me. Perhaps now you will not be angry, you will pity me. If you blame me for my presumption, yet believe that I blame myself more. Even if you should permit me to seek Miss Venniker’s hand, can I think she would grant it? I fear--I am almost sure--that you will say _No_. If it be so, do not take the trouble of writing the answer. I shall know what silence means. I shall pray for her (if my faith survives) every day of my life. Do not let her know what would make her think ill of me. I shall never see her again. But oh! if the answer could be _Yes_, if it were permitted me to hope for a joy so great, so blessed, then indeed would my life, that has once been dark and desolate, be irradiated with a glow of heavenly light. I have told you my secret. I cannot say more. You cannot think what it has cost me to tell you. Whatever happens, may God bless you for your goodness to me! Let me sign myself once more, if it be for the last time, dear Lady Venniker, Affectionately yours, GERALD S. EVERSLEY. Four days elapsed--days that seemed to Gerald like years. He began to think that Lady Venniker had acted upon his suggestion of silence as a means of indicating refusal. On the fifth day there was a letter bearing the Helmsbury postmark, written (not without difficulty) in Lady Venniker’s own delicate handwriting. It was in these words: Helmsbury Hall. MY DEAR GERALD,--I will not say that your letter was not a surprise to Lord Venniker and myself. It was more a surprise perhaps to him than to me. We have talked it over together. It was, we feel, very honourable of you to write it. We could not have wished you to act otherwise than as you have acted. You will, I know, understand, dear Gerald, that Lord Venniker has needed two or three days to think about what you have said. Ethel is our only daughter, she is very dear to us, and though we have never formed any plans for her marriage--it would not be right or wise to form them--yet it was in our minds that she should see something more of the world before thinking of entering upon the solemn responsibilities of married life. Perhaps Lord Venniker feels this point more strongly than I do. She is very young, and we should not like her to choose a husband who might not be all that her inexperience pictures him as being.