I need not say to you, my dear Heinrich, how greatly I love Estella.  It is not alone for her beauty, although that is as perfect and as graceful as the dream of some Greek artist hewn in immortal marble.  That alone would have elicited merely my admiration.  But there is that in her which wins my profoundest respect and love—­I had almost said my veneration.  Her frame is but the crystal-clear covering of a bright and pure soul, without stain or shadow or blemish.  It does not seem possible for her to be otherwise than good.  And yet, within this goodness, there is an hereditary character intrenched, capable, under necessity, of all heroism—­a fearless and a potent soul.  And, besides all this, she is a woman, womanly; a being not harsh and angular in character, but soft and lovable—­

     “A countenance in which do meet
     Sweet records, promises as sweet;
     A creature not too bright or good
     For human nature’s daily food;
     For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
     Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.”

You may judge, my dear brother, having gone through a similar experience, how profoundly I was drawn to her; how absolute a necessity she seemed to my life.  Neither was I a despairing lover; for had she not, at a time when death seemed imminent, avowed her love for me?  Yes, “love”—­that was the word she used; and the look which accompanied it gave the word a double emphasis.  But there was a giant difficulty in my path.  If she had compromised her maiden reserve in that particular, how could I take advantage of it?  And how could I still further take advantage of her lonely and friendless condition to press my suit?  And yet I could not leave her alone to encounter all the dangers of the dreadful time which I know too well is approaching.  If she had stood, happy and contented, in the midst of her family, under the shelter of father and mother, surrounded by brothers and sisters, with a bright and peaceful future before her, I could have found courage enough to press my suit, to throw myself at her feet, and woo her boldly, as man woos woman.  But this poor, unhappy, friendless, lovely girl!  What could I do?  Day and night I pondered the problem, and at last an expedient occurred to me.

I called upon her.  She had fled from the palace without a wardrobe.  A woman may be a heroine, but she is still a woman.  Joan of Arc must have given considerable thought to her cap and ribbons.  Estella was busy, with a dressmaker, contriving several dresses.  I asked her if I could speak with her.  She started, blushed a little, and led the way into another room.  I closed the door.

“My dear Estella,” I said, “I have been amusing my leisure by composing a fairy story.”

“Indeed,” she said, smiling, “a strange occupation for a philanthropist and philosopher, to say nothing of a poet.”

“It is, perhaps,” I replied, in the same playful vein, “the poetical portion of my nature that has set me at this work.  But I cannot satisfy myself as to the denouement of my story, and I desire your aid and counsel.”