"Oh, Marian!" she said. "You crying!
Think what you would say to me, if the places
were changed, and if those tears were mine. All
your love and courage and devotion will not
alter what must happen, sooner or later. Let
my uncle have his way. Let us have no more
troubles and heart-burnings that any sacrifice of
mine can prevent. Say you will live with me,
Marian, when I am married—and say no more."

But I did say more. I forced back the
contemptible tears that were no relief to me, and that
only distressed her; and reasoned and pleaded
as calmly as I could. It was of no avail. She
made me twice repeat the promise to live with
her when she was married, and then suddenly
asked a question which turned my sorrow and
my sympathy for her into a new direction.

"While we were at Polesdean," she said,
"you had a letter, Marian———"

Her altered tone; the abrupt manner in which
she looked away from me, and hid her face on
my shoulder; the hesitation which silenced her
before she had completed her question, all told
me, but too plainly, to whom the half-expressed
inquiry pointed.

"I thought, Laura, that you and I were never
to refer to him again," I said gently,

"You had a letter from him?" she persisted.

"Yes," I replied, "if you must know it."

"Do you mean to write to him again?"

I hesitated. I had been afraid to tell her of
his absence from England, or of the manner in
which my exertions to serve his new hopes and
projects had connected me with his departure.
What answer could I make? He was gone
where no letters could reach him for months,
perhaps for years, to come.

"Suppose I do mean to write to him again,"
I said at last. "What, then, Laura?"

Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck;
and her arms trembled and tightened round me.

"Don't tell him about the twenty-third," she
whispered. "Promise, Marian—pray promise
you will not even mention my name to him
when you write next."

I gave the promise. No words can say how
sorrowfully I gave it. She instantly took her
arm from my waist, walked away to the window,
and stood looking out, with her back to me.
After a moment, she spoke once more, but witthout
turning round, without allowing me to catch
the smallest glimpse from her face.

"Are you going to my uncle's room?" she
asked. "Will you say that I consent to whatever
arrangement he may think best? Never
mind leaving me, Marian. I shall be better alone
for a little while.

I went out. If, as soon as I got into the
passage, I could have transported Mr. Fairlie
and Sir Percival Glyde to the uttermost ends
of the earth, by lifting one of my fingers,
that finger would have been raised without an
instant's hesitation. For once, my unhappy
temper now stood my friend. I should have
broken down altogether and burst into a violent
fit of crying, if my tears had not been all burnt
up in the heat of my anger. As it was, I dashed
into Mr. Fairlie's room—-called to him as
harshly as possible, "Laura consents to the
twenty-third"—and dashed out again without
waiting for a word of answer. I banged the
door after me; and I hope I shattered Mr.
Fairlie's nervous system for the rest of the day.

28th. This morning, I read poor Hartright's
farewell letter over again; a doubt having
crossed my mind, since yesterday, whether I
am acting wisely in concealing the fact of his
departure from Laura.

On reflection, I still think I am right. The
allusions in his letter to the preparations made
for the expedition to Central America, all show
that the leaders of it know it to be dangerous.
If the discovery of this makes me uneasy, what
would it make her? It is bad enough to feel
that his departure has deprived us of the friend
of all others to whose devotion we could trust,
in the hour of need, if ever that hour comes
and finds us helpless. But it is far worse to
know that he has gone from us to face the perils
of a bad climate, a wild country, and a disturbed
population. Surely it would be a cruel candour
to tell Laura this, without a pressing and a
positive necessity for it?

I almost doubt whether I ought not to go a
step farther, and burn the letter at once, for
fear of its one day falling into wrong hands.
It not only refers to Laura in terms which
ought to remain a secret for ever between the
writer and me; but it reiterates his suspicion—-
so obstinate, so unaccountable, and so alarming
—-that he has been secretly watched since he
left Limmeridge. He declares that he saw the
faces of the two strange men, who followed him
about the streets of London, watching him
among the crowd which gathered at Liverpool
to see the expedition embark; and he positively
asserts that he heard the name of Anne Catherick
pronounced behind him, as he got into the
boat. His own words are, "These events have
a meaning, these events must lead to a result.
The mystery of Anne Catherick is not cleared
up yet. She may never cross my path again;
but if ever she crosses yours, make better use
of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I made
of it. I speak on strong conviction; I entreat
you to remember what I say." These are his
own expressions. There is no danger of my
forgetting them—my memory is only too ready
to dwell on any words of Hartright's that refer
to Anne Catherick. But there is danger in my
keeping the letter. The merest accident might
{?leave} it at the mercy of strangers. I may fall
ill; I may die—better to burn it at once, and
have one anxiety the less.

It is burnt! The ashes of his farewell letter
—the last he may ever write to me—lie in a few
black fragments on the hearth. Is this the sad
end to all that sad story? Oh, not the end—
surely, surely, not the end already!

29th. The preparations for the marriage
have begun. The dressmaker has come to
receive her orders. Laura is perfectly impassive,
perfectly careless about the question of all others