It scarce seems to you possible; it is a joy too great to be hoped for; and in the doubt of its attainment your old, worldly vanity comes in, and tells you to—­beware; and to live on in the splendor of your dissipation and in the lusts of your selfish habit.  Yet still underneath all there is a deep, low, heart-voice,—­quickened from above,—­which assures you that you are capable of better things; that you are not wholly lost; that a mine of unstarted tenderness still lies smouldering in your soul.

And with this sense quickening your better nature, you venture the wealth of your whole heart-life upon the hope that now blazes on your path.

——­You are seated at your desk, working with such zeal of labor as your ambitious projects never could command.  It is a letter to Margaret Boyne that so tasks your love, and makes the veins upon your forehead swell with the earnestness of the employ.

* * * * *

——­“DEAR MADGE,—­May I not call you thus, if only in memory of our childish affections; and might I dare to hope that a riper affection, which your character has awakened, may permit me to call you thus always?

“If I have not ventured to speak, dear Madge, will you not believe that the consciousness of my own ill-desert has tied my tongue; will you not at least give me credit for a little remaining modesty of heart?  You know my life, and you know my character,—­what a sad jumble of errors and of misfortunes have belonged to each.  You know the careless and the vain purposes which have made me recreant to the better nature which belonged to that sunny childhood, when we lived and grew up together.  And will you not believe me when I say, that your grace of character and kindness of heart have drawn me back from the follies in which I lived, and quickened new desires which I thought to be wholly dead?  Can I indeed hope that you will overlook all that has gained your secret reproaches, and confide in a heart which is made conscious of better things by the love you have inspired?

“Ah, Madge, it is not with a vain show of words, or with any counterfeit of feeling, that I write now; you know it is not; you know that my heart is leaning toward you with the freshness of its noblest instincts; you know that—­I love you!

“Can I, dare I hope, that it is not spoken in vain?  I had thought in my pride never to make such avowal,—­never again to sue for affection; but your gentleness, your modesty, your virtues of life and heart, have conquered me!  I am sure you will treat me with the generosity of a victor.

“You know my weaknesses; I would not conceal from you a single one,—­even to win you.  I can offer nothing to you which will bear comparison in value with what is yours to bestow.  I can only offer this feeble hand of mine—­to guard you; and this poor heart—­to love you!

“Am I rash?  Am I extravagant, in word, or in hope?  Forgive it then, dear Madge, for the sake of our old childish affection; and believe me, when I say, that what is here written—­is written honestly and tearfully.  Adieu.”