"She is better now," he said; "I will read a few sentences and pray with her; and then, Dolly, dear, you had better put her to bed. She has had enough to harass her for one day." The circumstance of Mr. Fitzmorris calling her "Dolly, dear," though it might only have been a slip of the tongue, trifling as it was, sent a thrill of joy to her heart. When he rose to go, he beckoned her to the window, and put a very large letter into her hand. "This was enclosed to me by Lord Wilton. He is about to accompany his sick son to Madeira for change of air--the physician's last shift to get rid of a dying patient." Dorothy put the letter in her pocket, secretly wondering what it could be about. She had no opportunity of reading it before she went to bed, as Mrs. Rushmere required her attendance far into the night, and the whole management of the house now devolved on her. How eagerly she opened the letter, when, after a thousand petty hindrances, she at last found herself seated at the little table in her own chamber. Enclosed within the letter was a large sealed packet, upon which was written, "only to be opened, if I never return to England." The letter ran thus:-- "My dear Dorothy, "I cannot leave England without bidding you farewell. You are very dear to me, so dear that words could scarcely convey to you the depth and strength of my affection. Do not start, my child--I can see the look of profound astonishment in the dear black eyes--I am not in love with you. The passion that bears that name, the passion that a lover feels for the woman he adores, whom he desires to call his own before all others, has long been dead in my heart, and lies buried with the loved and lost in a nameless grave. "The love that unites me to you, my dear Dorothy, though widely different, is not less holy in its nature, and flows out of the unutterable tenderness that a parent feels for a beloved child. Oh, that I could call you my child before the whole world. "Here, while watching beside the sick bed of my only son, the heir of my titles and estates, who, I fondly hoped, would carry down my name to posterity, and knowing that his hours are already numbered, my heart turns, in its sore agony, to you, the daughter of my choice, for sympathy and consolation. Do not deny me this, my dear young friend: write and tell me so; write just as you think and feel. I long for the simple utterances of your pure and guileless heart, so refreshing to my weary spirit, tired with the unmeaning hollow professions of the world. "We sail for Madeira to-morrow, I do not entertain the least hope that it will benefit Edward's health, but the change of scene and climate may amuse him on the one hand, and mitigate his sufferings on the other.