The letter, which had overcome the tacit misgivings of his mother as they read it and read it again together, was from a girl who had perhaps no need to confess herself young, or to own her inexperience of the world where stories were written and printed.  She excused herself with a delicacy which Verrian’s correspondents by no means always showed for intruding upon him, and then pleaded the power his story had over her as the only shadow of right she had in addressing him.  Its fascination, she said, had begun with the first number, the first chapter, almost the first paragraph.  It was not for the plot that she cared; she had read too many stories to care for the plot; it was the problem involved.  It was one which she had so often pondered in her own mind that she felt, in a way she hoped he would not think conceited, almost as if the story was written for her.  She had never been able to solve the problem; how he would solve it she did not see how she could wait to know; and here she made him a confidence without which, she said, she should not have the courage to go on.  She was an invalid, and her doctor had told her that, though she might live for months, there were chances that she might die at any moment suddenly.  He would think it strange, and it was strange that she should tell him this, and stranger still that she should dare to ask him what she was going to ask.  The story had yet four months to run, and she had begun to have a morbid foreboding that she should not live to read it in the ordinary course.  She was so ignorant about writers that she did not know whether such a thing was ever done, or could be done; but if he could tell her how the story was to come out he would be doing more for her than anything else that could be done for her on earth.  She had read that sometimes authors began to print their serial stories before they had written them to the end, and he might not be sure of the end himself; but if he had finished this story of his, and could let her see the last pages in print, she would owe him the gratitude she could never express.

The letter was written in an educated hand, and there were no foibles of form or excesses of fashion in the stationery to mar the character of sincerity the simple wording conveyed.  The postal address, with the date, was fully given, and the name signed at the end was evidently genuine.

Verrian himself had no question of the genuineness of the letter in any respect; his mother, after her first misgivings, which were perhaps sensations, thought as he did about it.  She said the story dealt so profoundly with the deepest things that it was no wonder a person, standing like that girl between life and death, should wish to know how the author solved its problem.  Then she read the letter carefully over again, and again Verrian read it, with an effect not different from that which its first perusal had made with him.  His faith in his work was so great, so entire, that the notion of any other feeling about it was not admissible.