“Heaven knows I believe it, mother.  When will Duncan come home again?”

“Monday; not before.”

When Monday morning came, on the desk in Rosalie’s room this letter was found:—­

“I cannot leave you for ever, Duncan; I cannot go from your protecting care, mother, without saying all that is in my heart.  I have no courage to look on you, my brother, again.  Mother! our union, which we had thought life-lasting, is broken.  I cannot any longer live in the world’s sight as your daughter by adoption.  I would have done so.  I would have remained in any capacity, as a slave, even, for I was bound by gratitude for all that you have done for me, to be with you always—­at least so long as you could wish.  If you had unveiled the mystery, and suffered me to stand before you, recognising myself as you know me, I would have stayed.  I would have been to you, Duncan, only as in childhood—­a proud yet humble sister, rejoicing in your triumphs, and sharing by sympathy in your griefs.  I would have put forth fetters on my heart; the in-dwelling spirit should henceforth have been a stranger to you.  I know I could have borne even to see another made your wife; but in a mistaken kindness you put this utterly beyond my power.  Too much has been required, and I am found—­wanting!  If even the most miserable fate that can befall an innocent woman; if the curse of illegitimacy were upon me, I could bear that thought even, and acknowledge the justice and wisdom that did not consider me a fit associate for one whose birth is recognized by a parent’s pride and fondness.

“But, dear Mrs. Melville, I must be cognisant of the relation, whatever it is, that I bear you.  I cannot, I will not, consent to appear nominally your daughter, when you scorn to receive me as such.

“Mother—­in my dear mother’s name, I thank you for the generous love you have ever shown me:  for the generous care with which you have attended to the development of the talents God gave me.  For I am now fitted to labour for myself.  I thank you for the watchful guardianship that has made me what I am, a woman—­self-reliant and strong.  I thank you for it, from a heart that has learned only to love and honour you in the past eighteen years.  And I call down the blessings of the infinite God upon you, as I depart.  Hereafter, always, it will be my endeavour to live worthily of you—­to be all that you have, in your more than charity, capacitated me to be.  Duncan, you will not forget me?

“I do not ask it.  But pray for me, and live up to the fullness of your being—­of your heart and of your intellect.  There is a happy future for you.  I have no word of counsel, no feeble utterance of encouragement to leave you—­you will not need such from me.  God bless and strengthen you in every good word and work—­it shall be the constant hope of the sister who loves you.  Mother, farewell!”

This letter was written on the Sabbath eve on which our story opens—­written in a perfect passion—­yes, of grief, and of despair.  The anger that Rosalie may at first have felt, gave way to the wildest sorrow now, but her resolution was taken, and her heart was really strong to bear the resolution out.