Upstairs she read “Locksley Hall” through to Hester, who was sleepless, until twelve o’clock. Not until the clock had struck the half-hour after midnight was Hetty free to take from her pocket and look at a letter the afternoon mail had brought. The superscription was in a hand she had seen in notes to Hester and upon the fly-leaves of books, and it was still sealed. She sat looking at it, as it lay within the open palm of a lax hand for a good (or bad) quarter of an hour. Hester’s regurgitate breathing—worse to-night than usual—was the only sound in the chamber. Now and then she raised her hands strugglingly, as if dreaming, but she slept on. To open that letter and take the contents into her empty heart would be to the lonely orphan Heaven on earth. It was long, for the envelope held several sheets. It was eloquent, for she had heard him talk upon the theme set forth in every line. She had will-force sufficient to conceal from the sister, whose heart would be broken by the truth, her reasons for refusing to link hers with the unsmirched name of the man she loved. She was not strong enough to put her finger under the flap of that envelope and read a single line, and then persist in doing right. Perhaps, in spite of the repulse of the morning, he had again called her “darling!” She durst not risk the seeing; she had strength given her to keep the resolution, but she did no more that night. The answer must wait until morning. The letter was hidden under the pillow, and her hand touched it while she slept and while she lay awake. In the still, purple dawn, she arose quietly, not to disturb Hester, dressed herself and knelt for a brief prayer, such as the busiest member of the household had time to offer. While she prayed she held the unopened letter to her heart. Arising, she kissed it lingeringly. “God bless my love!” she whispered. With steady fingers she wrote upon the reverse of the envelope: “_I cannot read this. Do not write again_,” slipped it into a larger cover, addressed it, and, before the family was astir, sent Homer with it to the nearest letter box. She had acted bravely, and, she believed, decisively, but she had blundered withal. An unopened letter, unaccompanied by a word of extenuation of the flagrant discourtesy, might damp the ardor of the most adoring lover. Yet March’s eyes were lit by a ray of affectionate amusement in receiving back this, the first love letter he had ever penned. He kissed the one-line sentence before putting the envelope away. “Perhaps she is afraid of herself!” May had suggested sagely, _à propos_ of Hetty’s avoidance of his visits.