He had made one more attempt to obtain another interview with India, by addressing to her a note. This note was returned, with the seal undisturbed, and with an insulting menace to the effect that any communication addressed by Mr. Mark Sutherland to Miss Sutherland must be preceded by a complete and final renunciation of his present purposes, before it could be received by her. Full of bitterness, he wrote to her again, and concluded his note thus:— “I know you now, India; I know you perfectly. I no longer worship you. Alas! there is nothing in you to worship, or even to approve beyond your enchanting beauty. And yet I love you still for that bewildering beauty and for the dream that is passing away. And you love me for something better than that; you love me, now that for conscience I withstand you, as you never loved me before. You wrong me in taking yourself away. You take from me mine own. There is a voice in your heart that assures you of this. But you stifle that voice. You outrage Nature—but beware! Be sure that Nature is a dread goddess, and Nemesis waits upon her bidding!” There is something awful in the just anger of a noble-minded, pure-hearted, high-spirited man; and thrice awful is it to the woman who loves him, when that anger falls upon herself. India received _this_ letter, and as she read it, bitter and scalding tears fell upon it. He had surmised the truth—she _did_ love him now with ten-fold strength and fervour, now that she had tried and proved his strength. There was something in him to love, to lean upon, to worship—something far more reliable, more attractive, and more binding than mere masculine beauty—than the stately form, the dark, spirited countenance, and the fascinating gaiety, that had pleased her childish fancy. There was firmness, courage, fortitude, _moral strength_; something that a true woman loves to rest upon, serve, adore. A wild and passionate longing seized her heart—to go and stand by him in his emergency—to help to sustain him, if it were ever so slight a help, in this storm of opposition. While the soul of India was convulsed in the terrible struggle between her strong and passionate affection, and her invincible spirit of antagonism, Mark Sutherland lingered at Cashmere. The habit of considering himself a son of the house could not easily be uprooted; and the absorption of all his thoughts and feelings in the subject of his broken relations with India, prevented him, for a time, from perceiving the cold and scornful demeanour of the master of the house. Had he not been totally abstracted in mind, he would not for an hour have borne the arrogance, which neither age nor relationship justified. Miss Sutherland had perseveringly absented herself from the drawing-room, and from the table—confining herself to her own room, and taking her meals there.