"Run and tell your mother I shall be with her directly," answered Marion; and the child departed. "You told me I might come again," pleaded Roger. "Better not. I didn't know what it would mean to you when I said it." "Let it mean what you meant by it, only let me come." "But I see now it can't mean that. No: I will write to you. At all events, you must go now, for I can't stop with you when Mrs. Foote"-- "Don't make me wretched, Marion. If you can't love me, don't kill me. Don't say I'm not to come and see you. I _will_ come on Sundays, anyhow." The next day came the following letter:-- Dear Mr. Roger,--I am very sorry, both for your sake and my own, that I did not speak more plainly yesterday. I was so distressed for you, and my heart was so friendly towards you, that I could hardly think of any thing at first but how to comfort you; and I fear I allowed you, after all, to go away with the idea that what you wished was not altogether impossible. But indeed it is. If even I loved you in the way you love me, I should yet make every thing yield to the duties I have undertaken. In listening to you, I should be undermining the whole of my past labors; and the very idea of becoming less of a friend to my friends is horrible to me. But much as I esteem you, and much pleasure as your society gives me, the idea you brought before me yesterday was absolutely startling; and I think I have only to remind you, as I have just done, of the peculiarities of my position, to convince you that it could never become a familiar one to me. All that friendship can do or yield, you may ever claim of me; and I thank God if I have been of the smallest service to you: but I should be quite unworthy of that honor, were I for any reason to admit even the thought of abandoning the work which has been growing up around me for so many years, and is so peculiarly mine that it could be transferred to no one else. Believe me yours most truly, MARION CLARE CHAPTER XLIII. A LITTLE MORE ABOUT ROGER, AND ABOUT MR. BLACKSTONE. After telling me the greater part of what I have just written, Roger handed me this letter to read, as we sat together that same Sunday evening. "It seems final, Roger?" I said with an interrogation, as I returned it to him.