I wrote you all the truth and only truth, True. Did what I told you seem too dreadful, too humiliating, to be overlooked and forgiven? Then I could not help the meeting with that miserable man, whom I detested and feared—indeed, I could not, although your mother insists I have compromised you all by the encounter. It was just as I told you in my letter, and you must know that I could never associate with such a man. I am sorry—so sorry to have brought discord into your family; my own are all dead—father, mother, and sister—and I should have been so glad if I could have stood in the light of a daughter and sister to your friends. But I have written all this before—how useless to repeat it! I merely meant to tell you that I cannot go to that hotel and register myself as your wife, when they tell me that I am not, and when I am in doubt as to what my future is to be—no, not doubt, for they say you will never forgive the deception that made our marriage illegal. If you are not really already free, the law will free you from a runaway wife.” And here a little of her pride and spirit blazed forth. “I should not come back here if you did find me; I cannot forgive you that, while you were pledged to another, you pretended to love me, and married me to repay an imaginary debt. But—I love you—I love you, and I would have been true and faithful to you all my life. Forgive me for breaking down thus, but my poor aching heart would make its last lament. How I shall live without you I cannot tell; perhaps I shall not live long; I think I shall be glad if I do not, and then you will be free indeed. Try to think as kindly of me as you can. I have not willingly deceived you; you know I wanted to tell you everything in the first place, but you would not let me. You were very kind to me the little time we spent together, and when I began to believe that you were growing to love me, as I love you, I was happier than I can express. I shall leave everything, save what I have brought with me. The diamonds and other jewelry I have arranged to send to the safe deposit vault, with the silver; also the check-book you gave me, and which I have not made use of at all. The money that you gave me at the same time—or what there is left after paying the servants—I will keep, for I may not be able to go to work just yet to earn for myself. I have tried to arrange everything as I thought you would like; I hope you will find all in good order when you return. Good-by, True—O True!” The letter was not signed, and those last words were hardly legible, as if her fingers had almost refused to trace them. Dr. Winthrop had groaned aloud again and again during the perusal of this hopeless, pathetic epistle, and when he came to the end—to that passionate outburst, “O True!”—he bowed his face upon his hands and sobbed aloud.