'I take up my pen in great sorrow and remorse to write you a letter, and to prevent you from coming over here for me, as you intended, on this day fortnight. I have promised to be your wife, but it cannot be. I know that I have behaved very badly, but it would be worse if I were to go on and deceive you. Before I knew you I had come to be fond of another man; and I find now, though I have struggled hard to do what my uncle wishes, that I could not promise to love you and be your wife. I have not told Uncle Michel yet, but I shall as soon as this letter is gone. 'I am very, very sorry for the trouble I have given you. I did not mean to be bad. I hope that you will forget me, and try to forgive me. No one knows better than I do how bad I have been. 'Your most humble servant, 'With the greatest respect, 'MARIE BROMAR.' The letter had taken her long to write, and it took her uncle long to read, before he came to the end of it. He did not get through a line without sundry interruptions, which all arose from his determination to contradict at once every assertion which she made. 'You cannot prevent his coming,' he said, 'and it shall not be prevented.' 'Of course, you have promised to be his wife, and it must be.' 'Nonsense about deceiving him. He is not deceived at all.' 'Trash--you are not fond of another man. It is all nonsense.' 'You must do what your uncle wishes. You must, now! you must! Of course, you will love him. Why can't you let all that come as it does with others?' 'Letter gone;--yes indeed, and now I must go after it.' 'Trouble!--yes! Why could you not tell me before you sent it? Have I not always been good to you?' 'You have not been bad; not before. You have been very good. It is this that is bad.' 'Forget you indeed. Of course he won't. How should he? Are you not betrothed to him? He'll forgive you fast enough, when you just say that you did not know what you were about when you were writing it.' Thus her uncle went on; and as the outburst of his wrath was, as it were, chopped into little bits by his having to continue the reading of the letter, the storm did not fall upon Marie's head so violently as she had expected. 'There's a pretty kettle of fish you've made!' said he as soon as he had finished reading the letter. 'Of course, it means nothing.' 'But it must mean something, Uncle Michel.' 'I say it means nothing. Now I'll tell you what I shall do, Marie. I shall start for Basle directly. I shall get there by twelve o'clock to-night by going through Colmar, and I shall endeavour to intercept the letter before Urmand would receive it to-morrow.' This was a cruel blow to Marie after all her precautions. 'If I cannot do that, I shall at any rate see him before he gets it. That is what I shall do; and you must let me tell him, Marie, that you repent having written the letter.'