But she could not think of that now, she could only think of the letter. The envelope was so precious to her that it seemed to return the caress that his fingers gave it and to have of itself some especial individuality. She traced his hand on the address, treasured every line and mark, and then at last tore it open. It was not a very long letter. He had written to her: "You will despise me for breaking my word. Perhaps you won't read this--but I _can't_ help it, I _can't_ help it, and even if I could I don't think that I would. I know that my writing to you is just another of the rash, foolish, silly weak things that I've gone on doing all my life, but let it be so. I don't pretend to be fine or brave and I have tried all these weeks, tried harder than you can know. I've written to you every day letter after letter, and torn them up--torn them all up. I've fancied that perhaps you've forgotten by now and then I've known that you've not and then I've known that it were better if you did. I love you so madly that--(here he had scratched some words out)--I must tell you that I love you so that _you_ can hear me and not only my walls and furniture and my own self. I'm trying not to be selfish. I know that I'm doing something now that is hard on you, but my silence is eating me, thrusting, killing--I shall be better soon--I will be sensible--soon--I will be---- But now, oh, my darling! for a moment at least I have caught you and held you throbbing against me, and put my hands in your hair and stroked your cheeks and kissed your eyes. Don't write to me if you must not, don't be angry with me for this. I will try not to break my word again." As the letter ended so silence came back into the room that had been beating and throbbing with sound. The pale light had gone, only the Downs were dim grey shapes against a darker sky--the ripple of some water slipping and falling came from the garden. The letter fell from her hands and lay white with the others on the floor. She tumbled on to her knees by the window and her heart was the strangest confusion of triumph and fear, exultation and shame. For a little time she lay there and felt that she was in his arms and that his lips were on her mouth and that her hand pressed his cheek. She got up, turned on the lights, took off her walking things, brushed her hair and washed her hands, picked up the other letters, but put his in the inside of her dress--then went down to the others. IV She found Lizzie sitting alone--"Where's Roddy?" Lizzie looked up at her. "He had to go and see about a horse or something." Rachel came down to the table and poured out some tea and then sat smiling at Lizzie; Lizzie smiled back. "I hope you liked your walk." "Yes, there's a storm coming up. You've no idea how deeply one gets to care for these Downs--their quiet and their size."