Grace read her letter over and over again.  It was the first love-letter she had ever had;—­the first letter she had ever received from any man except her father and brother—­the first, almost, that had ever been written to her by any other than her own special friends.  The words of it were very strange to her ear.  He had told her when he left her that he would write to her, and therefore she had looked forward to the event which had now come; but she had thought that it would be much more distant—­and she had tried to make herself believe that when it did come it would be very different from this letter which she now possessed.  ’He will tell me that he has altered his mind.  He ought to do so.  It is not proper that he should still think of me when we are in such disgrace.’  But now the letter had come, and she acknowledged the truth of his saying that written words were clearer in their expression than those simply spoken.  ’Not that I could ever forget a syllable that he said.’  Yet, as she held the letter in her hand she felt that it was a possession.  It was a thing at which she could look in coming years, when he and she might be far apart—­a thing at which she could look with pride in remembering that he had thought her worthy of it.

Neither on that day nor on the next did she think of her answer, nor on the third or fourth day with any steady thinking.  She knew that an answer would have to be written, and she felt that the sooner it was written the easier might be the writing; but she felt also that it should not be written too quickly.  A week should first elapse, she thought, and therefore a week was allowed to elapse, and then the day for writing her answer came.  She had spoken no word about it either to Mrs Dale or to Lily.  She had longed to do so, but had feared.  Even though she should speak to Lily she could not be led by Lily’s advice.  Her letter, whatever it might be, must be her own letter.  She would admit of no dictation.  She must say her own say, let her say it ever so badly.  As to the manner of saying it, Lily’s aid would have been invaluable; but she feared that she could not secure that aid without compromising her own power of action—­her own individuality; and therefore she said no word about the letter either to Lily or to Lily’s mother.

On a certain morning she fixed herself at her desk to write her letter.  She had known that the task would be difficult, but she had little known how difficult it would be.  On that day of her first attempt she did not get it written at all.  Now was she to begin?  He had called her ’Dearest Grace’; and this mode of beginning seemed as easy as it was sweet.  ’It is very easy for a gentleman,’ she said to herself, ’because he may say just what he pleases.’  She wrote the words ‘Dearest Henry,’ on a scrap of paper, and immediately tore it into fragments as though she was ashamed of having written them.  She knew that she would not dare to send away a letter beginning with such words.  She would not even have dared to let such words in her own handwriting remain within the recesses of her own little desk.  ‘Dear Major Grantly,’ she began at length.  It seemed to her to be very ugly, but after much consideration she believed it to be correct.  On the second day the letter was written as follows:—­