So when our walk brought us round to the village again, and I went home to breakfast, I prepared Ada for the account I was going to give her and told her exactly what reason we had to dread that Richard was losing himself and scattering his whole life to the winds.  It made her very unhappy, of course, though she had a far, far greater reliance on his correcting his errors than I could have—­which was so natural and loving in my dear!—­and she presently wrote him this little letter: 

My dearest cousin,

Esther has told me all you said to her this morning.  I write this to repeat most earnestly for myself all that she said to you and to let you know how sure I am that you will sooner or later find our cousin John a pattern of truth, sincerity, and goodness, when you will deeply, deeply grieve to have done him (without intending it) so much wrong.

I do not quite know how to write what I wish to say next, but I trust you will understand it as I mean it.  I have some fears, my dearest cousin, that it may be partly for my sake you are now laying up so much unhappiness for yourself—­and if for yourself, for me.  In case this should be so, or in case you should entertain much thought of me in what you are doing, I most earnestly entreat and beg you to desist.  You can do nothing for my sake that will make me half so happy as for ever turning your back upon the shadow in which we both were born.  Do not be angry with me for saying this.  Pray, pray, dear Richard, for my sake, and for your own, and in a natural repugnance for that source of trouble which had its share in making us both orphans when we were very young, pray, pray, let it go for ever.  We have reason to know by this time that there is no good in it and no hope, that there is nothing to be got from it but sorrow.

My dearest cousin, it is needless for me to say that you are quite free and that it is very likely you may find some one whom you will love much better than your first fancy.  I am quite sure, if you will let me say so, that the object of your choice would greatly prefer to follow your fortunes far and wide, however moderate or poor, and see you happy, doing your duty and pursuing your chosen way, than to have the hope of being, or even to be, very rich with you (if such a thing were possible) at the cost of dragging years of procrastination and anxiety and of your indifference to other aims.  You may wonder at my saying this so confidently with so little knowledge or experience, but I know it for a certainty from my own heart.

Ever, my dearest cousin, your most affectionate

Ada

This note brought Richard to us very soon, but it made little change in him if any.  We would fairly try, he said, who was right and who was wrong—­he would show us—­we should see!  He was animated and glowing, as if Ada’s tenderness had gratified him; but I could only hope, with a sigh, that the letter might have some stronger effect upon his mind on re-perusal than it assuredly had then.