Small things sometimes modify the feelings in a quite unexpected way. Thus, the discovery that the cruel brother whose image she had detested for two years--the brother whose brutal indifference had goaded Felix to suicide--was none other than the moderate, sensible, benevolent Denzil Vanston, had in some measure impaired her belief in Felix's judgment, if not his accuracy. She felt so sure, so convinced that Denzil would in all circumstances be reasonable, and treat his younger brother with fairness; that she was shaken in her sympathies, and doubtful of Felix's wisdom. Denzil had to-day told her something of Felix's mother. She had learned how, for the years ensuing on his father's death, the second Mrs. Vanston had practically turned him out of doors. He told her of the pain and anxiety which the light woman had caused her elderly husband, and of the "goings-on" at Normansgrave after his death. She discovered that family affairs have usually two sides, and that Felix was by no means the injured innocent which, in her inexperience, she had thought him. But, all the more for this change of mind in herself, she was determined that Felix must have fair play. Her notion of fair play for him was that she should write to him and explain the whole situation, as far as she herself understood it. If she were sure that it was right, she would go out and marry Felix, and sacrifice the rest of her life to him. But she did not believe that it was right to marry a man without loving him, unless he clearly understood that this was so. And Denzil manifestly had his claims, as well as Felix. To her, his claims appeared the stronger. Felix was now doing well. He had a good friend, in the person of Mr. Vronsky, who was devoted to him. He was still quite young, and would doubtless marry somebody else. She thought out the thing in her own mind as clearly as she could, and then went to her writing-table, sat down, and wrote to Felix before she slept. After explaining to him the situation as well as she could-- "--I do not love you," she wrote. "I own it. I do not wish to marry you. I admit it. I do not think that this is my fault. One cannot compel the feelings. To me you are almost a stranger. But your brother is my friend. He is splendidly unselfish, and after he had recovered from the shock of finding that I had been deceiving him all the time that he has been benefiting me, he said that of course there could be nothing between us unless you released me. "But I admit that I promised I would marry you. And I will keep that promise if you hold me to it, and do all I can to make up for the fact that I have not love to give. And perhaps I ought to tell you that I do not believe I shall ever be in love. Sometimes I think that the agony I went through, before my attempt to kill myself, has seared my feelings and made me hard and stupid. If you think of marrying me it is right that you should know this.