Later than he had thought, than he had hoped. His thoughts were confused. Now they were hurrying him away again. This must not be. In this supreme hour of his life there must be no vagueness; he must rule his mind. But how? Her letter--he would read her letter--yes, that would reassure him, would restore his composure. A horrid feeling of unreality was creeping over him. This was not a dream, surely? Katharine his wife was really coming--this was her room. The fire and light were real; the doors of yonder wardrobe were lying open to receive her dresses, and the jewels upon the table there were hers--she had worn them. He was really standing in the midst of objects which assured him all was true. Then why had he felt for a moment a wide cold barren heath around him, and seen the sky and the stars? They were shut out, and there was no picture upon the wall opposite? Of course not. There was no picture there; he was only remembering the picture he had seen yesterday. He would read her letter, and he would read it on his knees, and remain kneeling until he should hear the sound of wheels--and then? How painful the slow heavy beating of his heart grew! It quite confused him. He would be much easier kneeling down. He crossed the room to the low white bed, touching the table with his hand for a moment, and knelt down on the side of the bed which faced the door. He took Katharine's letter from his breast, spread it open on the coverlet, stretching his arms out round it, like a frame. He was steadier now--that strange hurry had passed away. This was the letter:-- "I wrote to you three years ago, on the day after my father died; and I then believed, and intended what I said, that that should be the last communication I would ever hold with you. I left you, full of anger and revenge, full of self-contempt that I had permitted myself to be deceived, and with no thought beyond myself, my injuries, and my vengeance. From that day I never heard your name spoken, or was recalled by any outward circumstance to the recollection of the life I had forsaken, until a few days ago; and the letter I am now writing to you, Robert, is the result of what I then accidentally learned.