’Allington, Thursday
’my dear major Grantly,

’I do not know how I ought to answer your kind letter, but I must tell you that I am very much flattered by your great goodness to me.  I cannot understand why you should think so much of me, but I suppose it is because you have felt for my misfortunes.  I will not say anything about what might have happened, if it had not been for papa’s sorrow and disgrace; and as far as I can help it, I will not think of it; but I am sure that I ought not to think about loving anyone, that is, in the way you mean, while we are in such trouble at home.  I should not dare to meet any of your great friends, knowing that I had brought nothing with me but disgrace.  And I should feel that I was doing an injury to dear Edith, which would be worse to me than anything.

’Pray believe me that I am quite in earnest about this.  I know that a gentleman ought not to marry any girl to do himself and his family an injury by it; and I know that if I were to make such a marriage I should be unhappy ever afterwards, even though I loved the man ever so dearly, with all my heart.’  These last words she had underscored at first, but the doing so had been the unconscious expression of her own affection, and had been done with no desire on her part to convey that expression to him.  But on reading the words she discovered their latent meaning, and wrote it all again.

’Therefore I know that it will be best that I should wish you good-bye, and I do so, thanking you again and again for your goodness to me,—­believe me to be, Yours very sincerely,

‘Grace Crawley’

The letter when it was written was hateful to her; but she had tried her hand at it again and again, and had found that she could do nothing better.  There was much in his letter that she had not attempted to answer.  He had implored her to tell him whether or no she did in truth love him.  Of course she loved him.  He knew that well enough.  Why should she answer any such question?  There was a way of answering it indeed which might serve her turn—­or rather serve his, of which she was thinking more than of her own.  She might say that she did not love him.  It would be a lie, and he would know it would be a lie.  But still it might serve the turn.  She did not like the idea of writing such a lie as that, but nevertheless she considered the matter.  It would be very wicked; but still, if it would serve the turn, might it not be well to write it?  But at last she reflected that, after all, the doing of the thing was in her own hands.  She could refuse to marry this man without burdening her conscience with any lie about it.  It only required that she should be firm.  She abstained, therefore, from the falsehood, and left her lover’s question unanswered.  So she put up her letter and directed it, and carried it herself to the village post-office.