Cistercian
stillness, when a letter was delivered to him by one of the Inn porters.
Edward read the superscription, and asked the porter who it was that
brought it. Two young ladies, the porter said.

These were the contents:--

"I am not sure that you will ever forgive me. I cannot forgive myself
when I think of that one word I was obliged to speak to you in the cold
street, and nothing to explain why, and how much I love, you. Oh! how I
love you! I cry while I write. I cannot help it. I was a sop of tears all
night long, and oh! if you had seen my face in the morning. I am thankful
you did not. Mother's Bible brought me home. It must have been guidance,
for in my bed there lay my sister, and I could not leave her, I love her
so. I could not have got down stairs again after seeing her there; and I
had to say that cold word and shut the window on you. May I call you
Edward still? Oh, dear Edward, do make allowance for me. Write kindly to
me. Say you forgive me. I feel like a ghost to-day. My life seems quite
behind me somewhere, and I hardly feel anything I touch. I declare to
you, dearest one, I had no idea my sister was here. I was surprised when
I heard her name mentioned by my landlady, and looked on the bed;
suddenly my strength was gone, and it changed all that I was thinking. I
never knew before that women were so weak, but now I see they are, and I
only know I am at my Edward's mercy, and am stupid! Oh, so wretched and
stupid. I shall not touch food till I hear from you. Oh, if, you are
angry, write so; but do write. My suspense would make you pity me. I know
I deserve your anger. It was not that I do not trust you, Edward. My
mother in heaven sees my heart and that I trust, I trust my heart and
everything I am and have to you. I would almost wish and wait to see you
to-day in the Gardens, but my crying has made me such a streaked thing to
look at. If I had rubbed my face with a scrubbing-brush, I could not look
worse, and I cannot risk your seeing me. It would excuse you for hating
me. Do you? Does he hate her? She loves you. She would die for you, dear
Edward. Oh! I feel that if I was told to-day that I should die for you
to-morrow, it would be happiness. I am dying--yes, I am dying till I hear
from you.

"Believe me,

"Your tender, loving, broken-hearted,

"Dahlia."

There was a postscript:--

"May I still go to lessons?"

Edward finished the letter wi