t I don't think I could have held it myself. It was dated December
23rd, and on the first page Rachel spoke of the proposed journey in
almost the same words which she had used in her letter to me, written on
the same date. Then came the surprise.

"You will wonder, dear Will, if I am altogether forgetting you and your
claims in the making of these plans; indeed, I never can be indifferent
to anything which concerns your happiness, but I have something to say
to you to-night which cannot longer be delayed. I am going to ask you
to set me free from our engagement. I have come to the conclusion that
I have been mistaken in many things, and that it would not be a right
thing for me to become your wife. Please don't imagine that I am
disappointed in you, or have any sins to lay to your charge. I am
thankful to say that my affection and esteem are greater now than on the
day when we were engaged, and I should be deeply grieved if I thought
there could ever be anything approaching a quarrel between us. I want
to be good, true friends, dear Will, but only friends--not lovers. I
see now that I should never have allowed anything else, but you must be
generous, dear, and forgive me, as you have already forgiven so many
failings.

"Don't try to dissuade me. You know I am not given to rash decisions,
and I have thought over nothing else than this step for some weeks past.
I know I am right, and in the future you will see it too, however
strangely it strikes you now. It would perhaps be better if you did not
come here to-morrow as arranged--"

The rest of the letter I knew already, so I did not trouble to look at
it, but turned back and read the last paragraphs for the second time, "I
have been mistaken in many things!" "My affection is greater than on
the day when we were engaged." "I have thought over nothing else for
some weeks past." Those three sentences seemed to stand out from the
rest, and to print themselves on my brain. I looked anxiously in Will's
face, and saw in it joy, agitation, a wonderful tenderness, but no
shadow of the suspicion which was tearing at my own heart. How blind
men are sometimes, especially when they don't care to see!

"She has never loved me!" he declared. "She had, as she says, an
affection for me as she might have had for a friend, a brother--an
affection such as I had for her, but she does not know--we neither of us
knew the meaning of--love!"

I looked at the carpet, and there