afraid, from his look and manner when
we parted, that she might have inadvertently betrayed to him the real
secret of her depression and my anxiety. This doubt grew on me so,
after he had gone, that I declined riding out with Sir Percival, and
went up to Laura's room instead.

I have been sadly distrustful of myself, in this difficult and
lamentable matter, ever since I found out my own ignorance of the
strength of Laura's unhappy attachment. I ought to have known that the
delicacy and forbearance and sense of honour which drew me to poor
Hartright, and made me so sincerely admire and respect him, were just
the qualities to appeal most irresistibly to Laura's natural
sensitiveness and natural generosity of nature. And yet, until she
opened her heart to me of her own accord, I had no suspicion that this
new feeling had taken root so deeply. I once thought time and care
might remove it. I now fear that it will remain with her and alter her
for life. The discovery that I have committed such an error in
judgment as this makes me hesitate about everything else. I hesitate
about Sir Percival, in the face of the plainest proofs. I hesitate
even in speaking to Laura. On this very morning I doubted, with my
hand on the door, whether I should ask her the questions I had come to
put, or not.

When I went into her room I found her walking up and down in great
impatience. She looked flushed and excited, and she came forward at
once, and spoke to me before I could open my lips.

"I wanted you," she said. "Come and sit down on the sofa with me.
Marian! I can bear this no longer--I must and will end it."

There was too much colour in her cheeks, too much energy in her manner,
too much firmness in her voice. The little book of Hartright's
drawings--the fatal book that she will dream over whenever she is
alone--was in one of her hands. I began by gently and firmly taking it
from her, and putting it out of sight on a side-table.

"Tell me quietly, my darling, what you wish to do," I said. "Has Mr.
Gilmore been advising you?"

She shook her head. "No, not in what I am thinking of now. He was
very kind and good to me, Marian, and I am ashamed to say I distressed
him by crying. I am miserably helpless--I can't control myself. For
my own sake, and for all our sakes, I must have courage enough to end
it."

"Do you mean courage enough to claim your release?" I asked.

"No," she said simply. "Courage, dear, to tell t