How different was the writing of that letter, to the writing of those once-treasured pages of my romance, which I had now abandoned for ever!  How slowly I worked; how cautiously and diffidently I built up sentence after sentence, and doubtingly set a stop here, and laboriously rounded off a paragraph there, when I toiled in the service of ambition!  Now, when I had given myself up to the service of love, how rapidly the pen ran over the paper; how much more freely and smoothly the desires of the heart flowed into words, than the thoughts of the mind!  Composition was an instinct now, an art no longer.  I could write eloquently, and yet write without pausing for an expression or blotting a word—­It was the slow progress up the hill, in the service of ambition; it was the swift (too swift) career down it, in the service of love!

There is no need to describe the contents of my letter to Margaret; they comprised a mere recapitulation of what I had already said to her.  I insisted often and strongly on the honourable purpose of my suit; and ended by entreating her to write an answer, and consent to allow me another interview.

The letter was delivered by the servant.  Another present, a little more timely persuasion, and above all, the regard I had shown to my promise, won the girl with all her heart to my interests.  She was ready to help me in every way, as long as her interference could be kept a secret from her master.

I waited a day for the reply to my letter; but none came.  The servant could give me no explanation of this silence.  Her young mistress had not said one word to her about me, since the morning when we had met.  Still not discouraged, I wrote again.  The letter contained some lover’s threats this time, as well as lover’s entreaties; and it produced its effect—­an answer came.

It was very short—­rather hurriedly and tremblingly written—­and simply said that the difference between my rank and hers made it her duty to request of me, that neither by word nor by letter should I ever address her again.

“Difference in rank,”—­that was the only objection then!  “Her duty”—­it was not from inclination that she refused me!  So young a creature; and yet so noble in self-sacrifice, so firm in her integrity!  I resolved to disobey her injunction, and see her again.  My rank!  What was my rank?  Something to cast at Margaret’s feet, for Margaret to trample on!

Once more I sought the aid of my faithful ally, the servant.  After delays which half maddened me with impatience, insignificant though they were, she contrived to fulfil my wishes.  One afternoon, while Mr. Sherwin was away at business, and while his wife had gone out, I succeeded in gaining admission to the garden at the back of the house, where Margaret was then occupied in watering some flowers.

She started as she saw me, and attempted to return to the house.  I took her hand to detain her.  She withdrew it, but neither abruptly nor angrily.  I seized the opportunity, while she hesitated whether to persist or not in retiring; and repeated what I had already said to her at our first interview (what is the language of love but a language of repetitions?).  She answered, as she had answered me in her letter:  the difference in our rank made it her duty to discourage me.