He had worked himself up to a very high pitch of feeling before he came to the end. It need scarcely be added that it was not in the least what he intended to say. He meant to have pointed out the hardship of his own case incidentally, and put the force of his prayer into his grandmother’s wishes. But John found out, like other people, that his pen ran away with him--his thoughts ran away with him. The stream of his eloquence all poured in one direction, while his intentions took the other way--curious conflict of that dual nature which nobody understands though so many people talk of it. It is more often in doing than in saying that we contradict our own purpose. But John was more near to the truth in what he said, being carried away by the fever of writing, and the natural impulse which seized upon his pen, than if he had discharged his commission more exactly. It was only when he read his letter over, still labouring with the emotion it had called forth, and which gradually rose higher and higher by the stimulus of his own eloquence, that it occurred to him that he had altogether left out his grandmother’s message. He added, as so many people do, in the manner which is called feminine, the real object of his writing in a postscript. It was very brief, and delivered with a much decreased earnestness. ‘Grandmamma is not very well. She can’t do nearly so much as she did a little while ago. It was she who first said I might write to beg you to come, and to say that she would like to see you. There are many things she would like to say to you, for the people here are very ignorant, and don’t understand.’ John had no doubt that he had thus given everything that was of the least importance in his grandmother’s message. He made a fair copy--a very fair copy of the document which was the most important he had ever had to do with. He would not trust himself to the opportunities of the morning, when, perhaps, Mr. Sandford might want him to do something, or Mr. Cattley might send for him, or anything might happen. The fire had gone out by this time, and the boy was very cold and cramped, and the stillness of the dead of night pressed upon his spirits. He took off his shoes before he stole up the creaking stairs to bed, with the fumes of his great intellectual effort in his head, and all his feelings roused. A sense of temerity, yet of pride, in the independent step he had taken was strong within him. Whatever might happen, at least he had made it apparent that he was now able to act and judge for himself. When Mrs. Sandford came downstairs a little later than usual next day--it was always now a little later, so that it was hard upon any principle of averages to say what the ‘usual’ was--she asked John about his letter, with a look and a grasp of his hand, which showed how much in earnest she was, and which gave him a momentary compunction at the thought of how little important her share in the invitation had been made.