Not a little to her astonishment, the next day brought her a long letter in Samuel’s fair commercial hand.  It began by assuring her that the writer had no intention whatever of troubling her with the renewal of a suit so firmly rejected on more than one occasion; he wished only to take this opportunity of her return from a long absence to express the abiding nature of his devotion, which years hence would be unbroken as to-day.  He would never distress her by unwelcome demonstrations; possibly she might never again hear from his lips what he now committed to paper.  Enough for him, Samuel, to cherish a love which could not but exalt and purify him, which was indeed, ‘in the words of Shakespeare, “a liberal education."’ In recompense of his self-command, he only besought that Miss.  Lord would allow him, from time to time, to look upon her face, and to converse with her of intellectual subjects.  ‘A paper,’ he added, ’which I read last week at our Society, is now being printed—­ solely at the request of friends.  The subject is one that may interest you, “The Influence of Culture on Morality.”  I beg that you will accept the copy I shall have the pleasure of sending you, and that, at some future date, you will honour me with your remarks thereon.’

Which epistle Nancy cruelly read aloud to Mary, with a sprightliness and sarcastic humour not excelled by her criticisms of ‘the Prophet’ in days gone by.  Mary did not quite understand, but she saw in this behaviour a proof of the wonderful courage with which Nancy faced her troubles.

A week had passed, and no news from America.

‘I don’t care,’ said Nancy.  ’Really and truly, I don’t care.  Yesterday I never once thought of it—­never once looked for the postman.  The worst is over now, and he may write or not, as he likes.’

Mary felt sure there would be an explanation of such strange silence.

’Only illness or death would explain it so as to make me forgive him.  But he isn’t ill.  He is alive, and enjoying himself.’

There was no bitterness in her voice.  She seemed to have outlived all sorrows and anxieties relative to her husband.

Mary suggested that it was always possible to call at Mr. Vawdrey’s house and make inquiries of Mrs. Baker.

’No, I won’t do that.  Other women would do it, but I won’t.  So long as I mayn’t tell the truth, I should only set them talking about me; you know how.  I see the use, now, of having a good deal of pride.  I’m only sorry for those letters I wrote when I wasn’t in my senses.  If he writes now, I shall not answer.  He shall know that I am as independent as he is.  What a blessed thing it is for a woman to have money of her own!  It’s because most women haven’t, that they’re such poor, wretched slaves.’

‘If he knew you were in want,’ said her companion, ’he would never have behaved like this.’

’Who can say?—­No, I won’t pretend to think worse of him than I do.  You’re quite right.  He wouldn’t leave his wife to starve.  It’s certain that he hears about me from some one.  If I were found out, and lost everything, some one would let him know.  But I wouldn’t accept support from him, now.  He might provide for his child, but he shall never provide for me, come what may—­never!’