If it were true that she loved him, it were equally true that he ought to be apprised of it. There could be no love without a mutual understanding, for to love alone would be admiration and entirely one-sided. Let her unfold her soul to him in order that he might take joy for his portion ere his ardor had cooled into mere civility. For if it were licit to love, it were more licit to express it and this expression should be reciprocal. She would tell him before it were too late. Her silence at the very moment when she should have acted was unfortunate. Perhaps his affection had been killed by the blow and her protestations would be falling upon barren soil. No matter! She would write and unfold her heart to him, and tell him that she really and truly cared for him more than any one else in the world, and she would beg him to return that she might whisper in his ear those very words she had been softly repeating to herself. Full repentance would take possession of her soul, and her heart would rush unrestrained to the object of its love, telling him that she was with him always, thinking of him, praying for him, and waiting for him. She would write him at once. II But she did not mail the letter. Hidden carefully in her room, it lay all the next day. Unworthy post-chaise to bear so precious a manuscript! She would journey herself to its destination to safeguard it, were it at all possible. A thousand and one misgivings haunted her concerning the safety of its arrival,--Stephen might have been transferred to some distant point, the letter itself might possibly fall into awkward hands, it might lay for months in the post bag, or fall into a dark corner of some obscure tavern, the roads were infested with robbers,--horrible thoughts, too horrible to record. She did not know just how long it had taken her to compose it. The end of the candle had burned quite out during the process, and she lay deliberating over its contents and wondering just what else might be added. Twice she was on the point of arising to assure herself on the style of her confession, but each time she changed her mind, deciding to yield to her earlier thought. The darkness seemed to envelop her in fancy, and when she again opened her eyes the darkness had disappeared before the light. It was morning and she arose for the day. Hour by hour she waited to tell her mother. It was only right that she should know, and she proposed to tell her all, even the very episode on the river bank. She needed counsel, especially during these lonely moments, and she felt that she could obtain it only by unfolding her heart unreservedly. Mother would know; in fact, she must have suspected the gravity of the affair. But how would she begin it? She longed for an opening, but no opening presented itself.