This slight conversation, repeated accurately to me by Emily, had the effect of confirming, if indeed any thing was required to do so, all that I had before believed as to Edward’s actual presence; and I naturally became, if possible, more anxious than ever to despatch the letter to Mr. Jefferies.  An opportunity at length occurred.  As Emily and I were walking one day near the gate of the demesne, a lad from the village happened to be passing down the avenue from the house; the spot was secluded, and as this person was not connected by service with those whose observation I dreaded, I committed the letter to his keeping, with strict injunctions that he should put it, without delay, into the receiver of the town post-office; at the same time I added a suitable gratuity, and the man having made many protestations of punctuality, was soon out of sight.  He was hardly gone when I began to doubt my discretion in having trusted him; but I had no better or safer means of despatching the letter, and I was not warranted in suspecting him of such wanton dishonesty as a disposition to tamper with it; but I could not be quite satisfied of its safety until I had received an answer, which could not arrive for a few days.  Before I did, however, an event occurred which a little surprised me.  I was sitting in my bed-room early in the day, reading by myself, when I heard a knock at the door.  “Come in,” said I, and my uncle entered the room.  “Will you excuse me,” said he, “I sought you in the parlour, and thence I have come here.  I desired to say a word to you.  I trust that you have hitherto found my conduct to you such as that of a guardian towards his ward should be.”  I dared not withhold my assent.  “And,” he continued, “I trust that you have not found me harsh or unjust, and that you have perceived, my dear niece, that I have sought to make this poor place as agreeable to you as may be?” I assented again; and he put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew a folded paper, and dashing it upon the table with startling emphasis he said, “Did you write that letter?” The sudden and fearful alteration of his voice, manner, and face, but more than all, the unexpected production of my letter to Mr. Jefferies, which I at once recognised, so confounded and terrified me, that I felt almost choking.  I could not utter a word.  “Did you write that letter?” he repeated, with slow and intense emphasis.  “You did, liar and hypocrite.  You dared to write that foul and infamous libel; but it shall be your last.  Men will universally believe you mad, if I choose to call for an inquiry.  I can make you appear so.  The suspicions expressed in this letter are the hallucinations and alarms of a moping lunatic.  I have defeated your first attempt, madam; and by the holy God, if ever you make another, chains, darkness, and the keeper’s whip shall be your portion.”  With these astounding words he left the room, leaving me almost fainting.