“You will be surprised to get a letter from me, considering my very recent heartless wicked treatment of you, and more surprised still to hear that I am writing to entreat your forgiveness. Ever since you left I have been so very, very miserable, and as each day has passed I have been more firmly convinced of your innocence, and that I have been the most unjust and ungenerous of wives. You will, I know, make allowance for my youth and a naturally jealous hot temper. These are but feeble excuses; no one but you, who have always been so good to me, would entertain them for an instant. I sometimes think I must have been mad; any way, whatever _you_ may do I shall never forgive myself. But you will pardon me, I know; not only because of your promise, but because--how can I tell you? I had a bad fainting fit the other day, and Morris was frightened and sent for the doctor; he says that before summer, all being well, there will be a little inmate in the nursery here. I have not told this great secret to anyone, neither must you. Long before summer your letter will have come, won’t it? Once this has fairly started, I shall count the very days till the answer comes back. If none comes I will know that you _cannot_ forgive me, and indeed I don’t deserve that you should. But you _will_ write to me a kind letter too, my darling Regy. Think how very lonely I am, I have no one but you in all the world. The post is just going out, so I must conclude. I direct this by the address you left with Helen, so it will be sure to reach you safely. Mind you write by return mail to “Your loving and penitent wife, “ALICE FAIRFAX.” When he had read this to the end he laid it down, and began to pace about the room in great agitation.