It was at this period that I received a letter from her mother. She said that her daughter did not know she was communicating with me, and that her letter was posted by a servant in the farmhouse. There was something on her mind which she wished to impart to me, and she had also an earnest desire to see the friend to whom they were so deeply indebted. If my engagements in London would permit of it she would esteem it an honor to shake hands with their dearest friend and confide to him a secret which was oppressing her. The request came opportunely. The good doctor had spoken of my changed appearance, and had advised me to go into the country for a rest. "Would Swanage suit me?" I asked. "I prescribe Swanage," he replied, smiling. He knew me only as John Fletcher, and had no suspicion that I was a married man. CHAPTER XX. I now approach a period in my life which, in comparison with what I have already related, shines like a garden in an arid desert--a fair garden blooming with the flowers of peace and happiness. It is not easy to say when I began to love Ellen, and she has confessed that she does not know when she began to love me. Chance, or fate, led us to each other, and has led us to the end, which is very near. Much of the past I would undo were it in my power, but, although a miracle would be needed to free me from the peril in which I stand, I would not undo that part of it which Ellen and I shared together despite the fact that it may be said to have created the mystery in which I am entangled. I have read somewhere how a withered rose may be restored to freshness and sweetness. So was it with my life in the hour that Ellen and I first met. I did not go down to Swanage immediately. With the knowledge that my enemies were at work, I waited a few days alert and on the watch, and when I reached the delightful spot it was by devious ways and cunning breaks in my journey which would have puzzled the smartest human bloodhound that could have been set to track me. Meanwhile I wrote both to Ellen and her mother, saying that I intended to visit them shortly and that no further letters were to be sent to me in London. That was all the notice I gave them, and when I presented myself it was at an unexpected moment. The day was bright and fine, the sea calm and benignant, the air already fragrant with the promise of spring. I walked towards the farmhouse as a man newly born to joy might have done. Friends true and sincere awaited my coming, and those who have read these pages will understand what that meant to me. Ellen sprang from the house at my approach. She had seen my form in the distance, and, as I came nearer, recognized and flew to welcome me. "My friend!" she murmured, holding out her two hands. I dropped my bag and clasped them. "Ellen--I beg your pardon, Miss Cameron!" "No. Ellen, if you wish it."