John Eames read this letter over twice before he opened that from Amelia.  He had never yet received a letter from Miss Roper; and felt very little of that ardour for its perusal which young men generally experience on the receipt of a first letter from a young lady.  The memory of Amelia was at the present moment distasteful to him; and he would have thrown the letter unopened into the fire, had he not felt it might be dangerous to do so.  As regarded his friend Cradell, he could not but feel ashamed of him,—­ashamed of him, not for running away from Mr Lupex, but for excusing his escape on false pretences.

And then, at last, he opened the letter from Amelia.  “Dearest John,” it began; and as he read the words, he crumpled the paper up between his fingers.  It was written in a fair female hand, with sharp points instead of curves to the letters, but still very legible, and looking as though there were a decided purport in every word of it.

   Dearest John,

It feels so strange to me to write to you in such language as this.  And yet you are dearest, and have I not a right to call you so?  And are you not my own, and am not I yours? [Again he crunched the paper up in his hand, and, as he did so, he muttered words which I need not repeat at length.  But still he went on with his letter.] I know that we understand each other perfectly, and when that is the case, heart should be allowed to speak openly to heart.  Those are my feelings, and I believe that you will find them reciprocal in your own bosom.  Is it not sweet to be loved?  I find it so.  And, dearest John, let me assure you, with open candour, that there is no room for jealousy in this breast with regard to you.  I have too much confidence for that, I can assure you, both in your honour and in my own—­I would say charms, only you would call me vain.  You must not suppose that I meant what I said about L. D. Of course, you will be glad to see the friends of your childhood; and it would be far from your Amelia’s heart to begrudge you such delightful pleasure.  Your friends will, I hope, some day be my friends. [Another crunch.] And if there be any one among them, any real L. D. whom you have specially liked, I will receive her to my heart, specially also. [This assurance on the part of his Amelia was too much for him, and he threw the letter from him, thinking whence he might get relief—­whether from suicide or from the colonies; but presently he took it up again, and drained the bitter cup to the bottom.] And if I seemed petulant to you before you went away, you must forgive your own Amelia.  I had nothing before me but misery for the month of your absence.  There is no one here congenial to my feelings,—­of course not.  And you would not wish me to be happy in your absence,—­would you?  I can assure you, let your wishes he what they may, I never can be happy again unless you are with me.  Write to me one little line, and tell me that you