"This was a crushing blow to me for more reasons than one. To begin with, the Governor is my personal friend. From him I have always received the utmost kindness, as well as from his daughter. "But in addition to this, I have got on so well, and my prospects are so good, that I am in a position to gratify the only wish I have in the world, were the woman I love only brave enough to face a life in this lonely place. But I could not, of course, think of asking you to encounter the risk of my being murdered, perhaps before your eyes. "However, Vronsky, my well-loved Vronsky, who is a second father to me, thinks he sees a way out. Cravatz is a thorough-paced scoundrel, and he has put himself within reach of the law out here. "If we can get him arrested all will be well; there is no other member of the Brotherhood to follow the thing up. "And now comes the question. If I can arrange this matter--will you come to me? I would travel to England, for I can get three months' leave--and marry you and bring you out here. It is a desolate village, but lovely in summer-time. You would have a comfortable house and good servants. "But what is the use of writing this? Even as I do it, I laugh at myself. Is it likely that such a thing as this should happen to me? "You are not mine, and never will be. You never were mine. It was your sweet child-sympathy that made you think for a few minutes--a few minutes of pity and regret--that you could love me. You repented almost at once--did you not? "Don't think that I am going to reproach you. The thing was inevitable. I had no right to suggest to you what I did. "You must not reproach yourself. I am older, harder, stronger now. I shall not take laudanum, even though I have to live without hope. "I have delayed the sending of this letter for three awful months of consuming impatience, in order to be pretty certain that we had a reasonable chance of laying hold of Cravatz. That assurance Vronsky now gives me. I therefore write. My feeling for you has never changed. I am, as always, your lover, and would-be husband. "But should you send to me the words I dare not think of as possible--should your answer be 'Yes, I will come to you'--then there are things about myself that I must tell you. "Don't keep me waiting, will you? Decide quickly, write, put me out of my pain. Life here is long, days pass slowly, and I am starving for a word. Remember that, and be merciful.--I am your devoted DAVID SMITH." Rona sat, with this letter in her hands, staring across at the pine-covered hill which fronts the Abbey; and it seemed as if her world were turning upside down. It had come. The thing which had loomed in the dim future, the thing that during the past months she had almost forgotten, was now upon her. She had received from David a definite offer of marriage, and it must be answered, one way or another.