It must have been after ten, as he and Mr. Woodhouse sat before the broad writing-table, with the litter of papers and memoranda before them, that John Paul suddenly burst into the room. The senior warden’s strong, kind face was flushed; he was plainly profoundly disturbed and upset. “West”--he said explosively, and stopped, seeing that they were not alone. “My dear fellow,” he began again, stammering with agitation, “can I see you a moment? A matter of business, Woodhouse, if you don’t mind. Can we go into another room, West?” But the lawyer protested that he was just about to go home. “I have married a wife; you’ll see how it is yourself, Billy, pretty soon! Lois allows me twenty minutes leeway of the hour I name to get home, and if I’m not back then, she threatens to send a policeman after me. Good-night. Good-night, John.” And he went whistling off into the night. The minister had not spoken. “Look here,” John Paul said, as the front door banged, “what under the sun is this business? Good Lord, West, Amy’s sent you a letter--Kate told me to break it to you, but I--confound it, man--go and read it. The girl’s crazy. Go and read it. What are we going to do?” Without a word William West took the letter and read it, standing facing Mr. Paul. (“It looked,” John Paul told his wife afterwards, “as though he died, then and there.”) “_You were right to tell me--only please--please don’t make me marry you. I cannot. I could never forget. If it were anything else--anything else--it would be different; but theft--oh, how cruel I am to say that! but I cannot marry you. There’s no use talking about forgiveness. I don’t want you to forgive me. I want you to hate me; then you will suffer less. Hate me. I’m not worth anything else. I’m going home to-morrow. It can be said I am ill, and the wedding is put off. I am ill, it won’t be a lie. Please don’t ask to see me. I cannot see you. Forgive me._ _A._” William West sat down, folding the letter between his fingers. “There’s nothing to be said.” He spoke very quietly. Then he opened the letter again, and looked down at it. “West, for God’s sake,” John Paul entreated him; “listen, man! don’t take it like that. The girl is out of her mind. Here, pull yourself together! It’s a passing whim; you will bring her to her senses as soon as you see her.” “She will not see me,” he said. As he spoke his eye caught the headlines of the deed of gift, and he read them absently:-- “=This Indenture= _made this ---- day of ----, Anno Domini 18--, Witnesseth: that William West, the grantor, for divers good and valuable considerations to him moving, has, and by these presents does give, grant, and convey_”-- The fold in the deed hid the rest.