I do not sleep well that night—it is a tossing sleep; one time joy—sweet and holy joy, comes to my dreams, and an angel is by me; another time the angel fades—the brightness fades, and I wake, struggling with fear. For many nights it is so, until the day comes on which I am looking for a reply. The postman has little suspicion that the letter which he gives me—although it contains no promissory notes, nor money, nor deeds, nor articles of trade—is yet to have a greater influence upon my life and upon my future, than all the letters he has ever brought to me before. But I do not show him this; nor do I let him see the clutch with which I grasp it. I bear it as if it were a great and fearful burden to my room. I lock the door, and, having broken the seal with a quivering hand—read: ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] THE LETTER “Paul—for I think I may call you so now—I know not how to answer you. Your letter gave me great joy; but it gave me pain, too. I can not—will not doubt what you say; I believe that you love me better than I deserve to be loved, and I know that I am not worthy of all your kind praises. But it is not this that pains me; for I know that you have a generous heart, and would forgive, as you always have forgiven, any weakness of mine. I am proud, too, very proud, to have won your love; but it pains me—more, perhaps, than you will believe—to think that I can not write back to you as I would wish to write—alas, never.” Here I dash the letter upon the floor, and with my hand upon my forehead sit gazing upon the glowing coals, and breathing quick and loud. The dream, then, is broken! Presently I read again: —“You know that my father died before we had ever met. He had an old friend, who had come from England, and who in early life had done him some great service which made him seem like a brother. This old gentleman was my god-father, and called me daughter. When my father died he drew me to his side and said: ‘Carry, I shall leave you, but my old friend will be your father,’ and he put my hand in his and said: ‘I give you my daughter.’ “This old gentleman had a son, older than myself; but we were much together, and grew up as brother and sister. I was proud of him, for he was tall and strong, and every one called him handsome. He was as kind, too, as a brother could be, and his father was like my own father. Every one said, and believed, that we would one day be married, and my mother and my new father spoke of it openly. So did Laurence, for that is my friend’s name.