narrow lane.

At last, after many trials, Tom got himself well in hand, and
produced something which seemed to satisfy him; for, after
reading it three or four times, he put it in a cover with a small
case, which he produced from his desk, sealed it, directed it,
and then went to bed.

Next morning, after chapel, he joined Hardy, and walked to his
rooms with him, and after a few words on indifferent matters,
said--

"Well, I wrote my letter last night."

"Did you satisfy yourself?"

"Yes, I think so. I don't know, though, on second thoughts; it
was very tough work."

"I was afraid you would find it so."

"But wouldn't you like to see it?"

"No thank you. I suppose my father will be here directly."

"But I wish you would read it through," said Tom, producing a
copy.

"Well, if you wish it, I suppose I must; but I don't see how I
can do any good."

Hardy took the letter, and sat down, and Tom drew a chair close
to him, and watched his face while he read:--

"It is best for us both that I should not see you any more, at
least at present. I feel that I have done you a great wrong. I
dare not say much to you, for fear of making that wrong greater.
I cannot, I need not tell you how I despise myself now--how I
long to make you any amends in my power. If ever I can be of any
service to you, I do hope that nothing which has passed will
hinder, you from applying to me. You will not believe how it
pains me to write this; how should you? I don't deserve that you
should believe anything I say. I must seem heartless to you; I
have been, I am heartless. I hardly know what I am writing. I
shall long all my life to hear good news of you. I don't ask you
to pardon me, but if you can prevail on yourself not to send back
the enclosed, and will keep it as a small remembrance of one who
is deeply sorry for the wrong he has done you, but who cannot and
will not say he is sorry he ever met you, you will be adding
another to the many kindnesses which I have to thank you for, and
which I shall never forget."

Hardy read it over several times, as Tom watched impatiently,
unable to make out anything from his face.

"What do you think? You don't think there's anything wrong in it,
I hope?"

"No, indeed, my dear fellow. I really think it does you credit. I
don't know what else you could have said very well, only--"

"Only what?"

"Couldn't you have made it a little shorter?"

"No, I couldn't; but you don't mean that. What