In the end, I expect to conquer, either here or hereafter. I believe in the Fatherhood of God, and that He has a purpose even in letting us blindly stumble through life as we do; and through all my weakness and unworthiness I still hold his hand. I _know_ that the whole temptation is one of brain and nerves, and when He chooses He can release me. The poor brain will be cold and still for good and all some day, and _I_ shall be free and able to see, I trust, why I have been suffered thus to struggle. After all, _immortality_ opens a large hope, that may overpay the most unspeakable bitterness of life. Meanwhile, you can see why I do not wish to be brought into personal relations with the only woman I have ever loved, or ever can love, and whose happiness I fear to put in peril. It is an unspeakable delight and relief to have this power of doing for her, but she must not know of it. Also, let me tell you that you are to me more transparent than you think. It requires only the penetration of friendship to see that you are in love, and that you hesitate and hang back because of an unwillingness to match your fortunes with hers. Let me suggest, do you not owe it as a matter of justice, after so much intimacy as has existed, to give her the opportunity to choose between a man and circumstances? If the arrangement between us goes into effect, you will have a definite position and a settled income. Go to her like a man and lay it before her, and if she is worthy of you she will come to you. "He either dreads his fate too much, Or his desert is small, Who fears to put it to the touch, To win or lose it all." God grant you a home and fireside, Harry, and I will be the indulgent uncle in the chimney-corner. Yours ever, BOLTON. CHAPTER XXX. PERTURBATIONS. SCENE.--_Ida's Study--Ida busy making notes from a book--Eva sitting by, embroidering._ Eva--"Heigho! how stupid things are. I am tired of everything. I am tired of shopping--tired of parties--tired of New York--where the same thing keeps happening over and over. I wish I was a man. I'd just take my carpet-bag and go to Europe. Come now, Ida, pray stop that, and talk to me, do!" _Ida_, putting down her book and pen: "Well--and what about?" "Oh, you know!--this inextricable puzzle--what does ail a certain person? Now he didn't come at all last night, and when I asked Jim Fellows where his friend was (one must pass the compliment of inquiring, you know), he said, 'Henderson had grown dumpy lately,' and he couldn't get him out anywhere." "Well, Eva, I'm sure I can't throw any light on the subject. I know no more than you." "Now, Ida, let me tell you, this afternoon when we stopped in the park, I went into that great rustic arbor on the top of the hill there, and just as we came in on one side, I saw him in all haste hurrying out on the other, as if he were afraid to meet me." "How very odd!"