'I write to you, my beloved and only brother, Stanley, in an altered state of mind, and with clearer views of duty than, I think, I have ever had before.' 'Just as I conjectured,' muttered Stanley, with a bitter smile, as he shook the ashes off the top of his cigar--'a woman's homily.' He read on, and a livid frown gradually contracted his forehead as he did so. 'I do not know, Stanley, what your feelings may be. Mine have been the same ever since that night in which I was taken into a confidence so dreadful. The circumstances are fearful; but far more dreadful to me, the mystery in which I have lived ever since. I sometimes think I have only myself to blame. But you know, my poor brother, why I consented, and with what agony. Ever since, I have lived in terror, and worse, in degradation. I did not know, until it was too late, how great was my guilt. Heaven knows, when I consented to that journey, I did not comprehend its full purpose, though I knew enough to have warned me of my danger, and undertook it in great fear and anguish of mind. I can never cease to mourn over my madness. Oh! Stanley, you do not know what it is to feel, as I do, the shame and treachery of my situation; to try to answer the smiles of those who, at least, once loved me, and to take their hands; to kiss Dorcas and good Dolly; and feel that all the time I am a vile impostor, stained incredibly, from whom, if they knew me, they would turn in horror and disgust. Now, Stanley, I can bear anything but this baseness--anything but the life-long practice of perfidy--that, I will not and cannot endure. _Dorcas must know the truth._ That there is a secret jealously guarded from her, she does know--no woman could fail to perceive that; and there are few, Stanley, who would not prefer the certainty of the worst, to the anguish of such relations of mystery and reserve with a _husband_. She is clever, she is generous, and has many noble qualities. She will see what is right, and do it. Me she may hate, and must despise; but that were to me more endurable than friendship gained on false pretences. I repeat, therefore, Stanley, that _Dorcas must know the whole truth_. Do not suppose, my poor brother, that I write from impulse--I have deeply thought on the subject.' '_Deeply_,' repeated Stanley, with a sneer. 'And the more I reflect, the more am I convinced--if _you_ will not tell her, Stanley, that _I_ must. But it will be wiser and better, terrible as it may be, that the revelation should come from _you_, whom she has made her husband. The dreadful confidence would be more terrible from any other. Be courageous then, Stanley; you will be happier when you have disclosed the truth, and released, at all events, one of your victims. 'Your sorrowful and only sister, 'RACHEL.'