‘After all that we have said and hoped, I am obliged to come to a pause. What I have to tell you had better be said in a very few words. I have always believed that my father was dead, that he died when I was a child. I have suddenly found that he is alive. His existence makes an end at once of all the hopes that were as my life. I must give you up, first of all, because you are more precious than everything else. Whatever may happen to me; whatever I do; whether I succeed, as is very little likely, or fail, which is almost sure now, I never can have any standing-ground on which to claim you. I must give you up. This revolution in my life has been very sudden, and I dare not delay telling you of it--for nothing can ever bridge over the chasm thus made. I will explain why this is, if you wish it, or if anyone wishes it: but I would rather not do it, for it is very, very painful. All is pain and misery--I think there is nothing else left in the world. Elly, I daren’t say a word to you to rouse your pity. I ought not to try to make you sorry for me. I ought to do nothing more than say God bless you. I never was worthy to stand beside you, to entertain such a wild dream as that you might be mine. I can never forget, but I hope that you may forget, all except our childhood, which cannot harm. ‘J. M. S.’ ‘Now what,’ said Elly, facing them both defiantly, ‘what does that mean?’ Susie had read it too, at last, though at first she had refused to read it. Did she not know in a moment what it meant? For her there could be no doubt. Since she had grown a woman; since she had learned how things go in this world, and how difficult it is to conceal anything, there had always been a dread in Susie’s mind of what would happen when John found out. This had only come over her by moments, but now, in the shock of the discovery, she believed that she had always thought so, and always trembled for this contingency. She said to herself now that she had always known it would happen, which was going further still--always known--always dreaded--and now it had come. She did not need to read the letter, but she had done so at last, overwhelmed by anxiety and fear. She gave it back to Elly without a word. Of course she had known what it must be. Of course, from the first moment, she had known. ‘Susie,’ Elly said again, ‘tell me, what does it mean?’ ‘You know him well enough,’ Susie said, falteringly; ‘you know he would not say what was not true.’ ‘But if this is true,’ said Elly, ‘then he has said before what was not true. What can it be to me that his father is living? I do not mind--his father is nothing to me. I don’t want to hurt you, Susie, but if his father swept the streets, if he--oh, I don’t want to hurt you!’