Miss Thomasine Grace Whitwell locked herself in her room, and read twice over the letter which she had received from the Rev. Peter Macdonald. The letter—a very short one, but one which went directly to its purpose—was a manly declaration of the love of its writer. “I have known you only a short time,” it said, “but I know you well enough to feel that the greatest joy I could have would be in the knowledge that you cared for me—a knowledge that would fill me with inspiration for my life and work. I am not of those who think that a clergyman can better fulfil his mission by debarring himself from the sweet domestic ties of home and wife and children. He can, certainly, unless his wife be a real helpmeet; but if she be, surely he will be the better fitted to help and sympathise with the dwellers in the multitudes of homes which Christianity has made possible for the people. I do not pretend that it is entirely because I have seen your ministry of mercy among your people that I ask you to come to my help; it is because I love you, and because it is only since I have known you that the alluring picture of a home of affection, with a gracious woman at its head, has formed itself in my mind. It is frequently there now, and always it is of yourself that I think in connection with it. Will you be good to me, and make the picture a reality, not because I am worthy, but because you are kind?” It goes without saying that Tom was profoundly moved and impressed by this letter, and equally surprised by it also. “What can such a man as he see in me that he should care for me?” she asked herself, and the answer was not forthcoming. She admired and revered Mr. Macdonald exceedingly. It seemed to Tom that she had never been converted, or experienced any real religion until she knew him, and listened to his teachings; but it had never occurred to her that he could be like other men, or that human love could be essential to his happiness. Tom was a little disappointed as well as greatly astonished and flattered. She knew what her answer must be; and she also knew, though it filled her with shame to acknowledge it to herself, that the true reason was because another knight had won her fealty. Why _he_ was silent when she had expected him to speak she could not tell. She felt sure now, since months passed and brought neither Arthur Knight nor a word from him, that her lot would be that of so many other women of her time—a lot which contained great joy, if not the bliss of which almost every woman dreams, and the larger ministry of love which embraces many instead of one. And Tom deliberately chose it for herself now. There was only one possible person for her; and if he did not wish to share her life, no one else should.