Tom went to his own rooms, and set to work to write his letter; and certainly found it as difficult and unpleasant a task as he had ever set himself to work upon. Half a dozen times he tore up sheet after sheet of his attempts; and got up and walked about, and plunged and kicked mentally against the collar and traces in which he had harnessed himself by his friend's help,--trying to convince himself that Hardy was a Puritan, who had lived quite differently from other men, and knew nothing of what a man ought to do in a case like this. That after all very little harm had been done! The world would never go on at all if people were to be so scrupulous! Probably, not another man in the college, except Grey, perhaps, would think anything of what he had done!--Done! why, what had he done? He couldn't be taking it more seriously if he had ruined her! At this point he managed to bring himself up sharp again more than once. "No thanks to _me_ at any rate, that she isn't ruined. Had I any pity, any scruples? My God, what a mean, selfish rascal I have been!" and then he sat down again, and wrote, and scratched out what he had written, till the other fit came on, and something of the same process had to be gone through again. We must all recognize the process, and remember many occasions on which we have had to put bridle and bit on, and ride ourselves as if we had been horses or mules without understanding; and what a trying business it was--as bad as getting a young colt past a gipsy encampment in a narrow lane. At last, after many trials, Tom got himself well in hand, and produced something which seemed to satisfy him; for, after reading it three or four times, he put it in a cover with a small case, which he produced from his desk, sealed it, directed it, and then went to bed. Next morning, after chapel, he joined Hardy, and walked to his rooms with him, and after a few words on indifferent matters, said-- "Well, I wrote my letter last night." "Did you satisfy yourself?" "Yes, I think so. I don't know, though, on second thoughts; it was very tough work." "I was afraid you would find it so." "But wouldn't you like to see it?" "No thank you. I suppose my father will be here directly." "But I wish you would read it through," said Tom, producing a copy. "Well, if you wish it, I suppose I must; but I don't see how I can do any good." Hardy took the letter, and sat down, and Tom drew a chair close to him, and watched his face while he read:--