Edward eased him back to friendliness by laughing.  “No; my hand.”

They shook hands.

“All right,” said Algernon.  “You mean well.  It’s very well for you to preach virtue to a poor devil; you’ve got loose, or you’re regularly in love.”

“Virtue! by heaven!” Edward cried; “I wish I were entitled to preach it to any man on earth.”

His face flushed.  “There, good-bye, old fellow,” he added.

“Go to the city.  I’ll dine with you to-night, if you like; come and dine with me at my Club.  I shall be disengaged.”

Algernon mumbled a flexible assent to an appointment at Edward’s Club, dressed himself with care, borrowed a sovereign, for which he nodded his acceptance, and left him.

Edward set his brain upon a book of law.

It may have been two hours after he had sat thus in his Cistercian stillness, when a letter was delivered to him by one of the Inn porters.  Edward read the superscription, and asked the porter who it was that brought it.  Two young ladies, the porter said.

These were the contents:—­

“I am not sure that you will ever forgive me.  I cannot forgive myself when I think of that one word I was obliged to speak to you in the cold street, and nothing to explain why, and how much I love, you.  Oh! how I love you!  I cry while I write.  I cannot help it.  I was a sop of tears all night long, and oh! if you had seen my face in the morning.  I am thankful you did not.  Mother’s Bible brought me home.  It must have been guidance, for in my bed there lay my sister, and I could not leave her, I love her so.  I could not have got down stairs again after seeing her there; and I had to say that cold word and shut the window on you.  May I call you Edward still?  Oh, dear Edward, do make allowance for me.  Write kindly to me.  Say you forgive me.  I feel like a ghost to-day.  My life seems quite behind me somewhere, and I hardly feel anything I touch.  I declare to you, dearest one, I had no idea my sister was here.  I was surprised when I heard her name mentioned by my landlady, and looked on the bed; suddenly my strength was gone, and it changed all that I was thinking.  I never knew before that women were so weak, but now I see they are, and I only know I am at my Edward’s mercy, and am stupid!  Oh, so wretched and stupid.  I shall not touch food till I hear from you.  Oh, if, you are angry, write so; but do write.  My suspense would make you pity me.  I know I deserve your anger.  It was not that I do not trust you, Edward.  My mother in heaven sees my heart and that I trust, I trust my heart and everything I am and have to you.  I would almost wish and wait to see you to-day in the Gardens, but my crying has made me such a streaked thing to look at.  If I had rubbed my face with a scrubbing-brush, I could not look worse, and I cannot risk your seeing me.  It would excuse you for hating me.  Do you?  Does he hate her?  She loves you.  She would die for you, dear Edward.  Oh!  I feel that if I was told to-day that I should die for you to-morrow, it would be happiness.  I am dying—­yes, I am dying till I hear from you.