And he read: 

“My dear Christian,

“If you have forgotten me, I have not forgotten you.  A man does not generally meet with a girl like you twice in his lifetime.  If, pressed by circumstances, I let you slip through my fingers, it was the worse for me, and, perhaps, the better for you.  I bear no grudge against that worthy don and most respectable old fogie, your husband!”

Christian recoiled with indignation, but Dr. Grey laughed—­actually laughed in the content of his heart, and, putting his arm round his wife’s waist, made her read the remainder of the letter with him.

“I have followed you pretty closely for some weeks.  I can not tell why, except that once I was madly in love with you, and perhaps I am still—­I hardly know.  But I am a gentleman, and not a fool either.  And when a man sees a woman cares no more for him than she does for the dust under her feet, why, if he keeps on caring for her, he’s a fool.

“The purport of this letter is, therefore, nothing to which you can have the slightest objection, it being merely a warning.  There is a young woman in Avonsbridge, Susan Bennett by name, who, from an unfortunate slip of the tongue of mine, hates you, as all women do hate one another (except one woman, whom I once had the honor of meeting every day for four weeks, which fact may have made me a less bad fellow than I used to be, God knows—­if there is a God, and if He does know any thing).  Well, what I had to say is, beware of Susan Bennett, and beware of another person, who thinks herself much superior to Bennett, and yet they are as like as two peas—­Miss Gascoigne.  Defend yourself; you may need it.  And as the best way to defend you, I mean immediately to leave Avonsbridge—­perhaps for personal reasons also, discretion being the better part of valor, and you being so confoundedly like an angel still.  Good-by.  Yours truly,”

“Edwin Uniacke”

A strange “love-letter” certainly, yet not an ill one, and one which it was better to have received than not.  Better than any uncomfortable mystery to have had this clearing up of the doings and intentions of that strange, brilliant, erratic spirit which had flashed across the quiet atmosphere of Saint Bede’s and then vanished away in darkness—­ darkness not hopelessly dark.  No one could believe so—­at least no good Christian soul could, after reading that letter.

The husband and wife sat silent for a little, and then Dr. Grey said, “I always thought he was not altogether bad—­there was some good in him, and he may be the better, poor fellow, all his life for having once had a month’s acquaintance with Christian Oakley.”

Christian pressed her husband’s hand gratefully.  That little word or two carried in it a world of healing.  But she was not able to say much; her heart was too full.

“And now what is to be done?” said Dr. Grey, meditatively.  “He must have had some motive in writing this letter—­a not unkindly motive either.  He must be aware of some strong reason for it when he tells you to ‘defend yourself.’  He forgets.” added Christian’s husband, tenderly, “that now there is some body else to do it for you.”