“I took the sacrament after a long and serious course of reading; and, having made my vows at the altar, with the help of God, they are unchangeable.  Dramatic works, the pernicious study and poison of my youthful ardent mind, I have long since discarded; and I had resolved never to see you again, until after your marriage with Miss Somerville had been solemnised.  Start not!  By the simplest and easiest means I have known all your movements—­your dangers, your escapes, your undaunted acts of bravery and self-devotion for the sake of others.

“‘Shall I then,’ said I to myself, ’blast the prospects of the man I love—­the father of my boy?  Shall I, to gratify the poor, pitiful ambition of becoming the wife of him, to whom I once was the mistress, sacrifice thus the hopes and fortune of himself and family, the reward of a virtuous maiden?’ In all this I hope you will perceive a proper share of self-denial.  Many, many floods of bitter tears of repentance and regret have I shed over my past conduct; and I trust, that what I have suffered and what I shall suffer, will be received as my atonement at the Throne of Grace.  True, I once looked forward to the happy period of our union, when I might have offered myself to you, not as a portionless bride; but I was checked by one maddening, burning, inextingishable thought.  I could not be received into that society to which you were entitled.  I felt that I loved you, Frank; loved you too well to betray you.  The woman that had so little respect for herself, was unfit to be the wife of Francis Mildmay.

“Besides, how could I do my sweet boy the injustice to allow him to have brothers and sisters possessing legitimate advantages over him?  I felt that our union never could be one of happiness, even if you consented to take me as your wife, of which I had my doubts; and when I discovered, through my emissaries, that you were on the point of marriage with Miss Somerville, I felt that it was all for the best; that I had no right to complain; the more so as it was I who (I blush to say it) had seduced you.

“But, Frank, if I cannot be your wife—­and alas!  I know too well that that is impossible—­will you allow me to be your friend, your dear friend, as the mother of your child, or, if you please, as your sister?  But there the sacred line is drawn; it is a compact between my God and myself.  You know my firmness and decision; once maturely deliberated, my resolution formed, it is not, I think, in man to turn me.  Do not, therefore, make the attempt; it will only end in your certain defeat and shame, and in my withdrawing from your sight for ever.  You will not, I am sure, pay me so bad a compliment as to wish me to renew the follies of my youth.  If you love me, respect me; promise, by the love you bear to Miss Somerville, and your affection for this poor boy, that you will do as I wish you.  Your honour and peace of mind, as well as mine, demand it.”