In the meantime Rem was writing his proposal.  He was not assisted in the effort by any sight of his mistress.  It was evident Cornelia was not in her home, and he looked in vain for any shadow of the sweet face that he was certain would have made his words come easily.  Finally, after many trials, he desisted with the following, though it was the least affective of any form he had written: 

To miss Moran,

Honoured and Beloved Friend: 

Twenty times this day I have tried to write a letter worthy to come into your hands and worthy to tell you how beyond all words I love you, But what can I say more than that I love you?  This you know.  It has been no secret to you since ever you were a little girl.  Many years I have sought your love,—­pardon me if now I ask you to tell me I have not sought in vain.  To-morrow I must leave New York, and I may be away for some time.  Pray, then, give me some hope to-night to take with me.  Say but one word to make me the proudest and happiest lover in the world.  Give me the permission to come and show to your father that I am able to maintain you in every comfort that is your right; and all my life long I will prove to you the devotion that attests my undying affection and gratitude.  I am sick with longing for the promise of your love.  May I presume to hope so great a blessing?  O dearest Cornelia, I am, as you know well, your humble servant, Rembrandt Van Ariens.

When he had finished this letter, he folded and sealed it, and walked to the window with it in his hand.  Then he saw Cornelia returning home from some shopping or social errand, and hastily calling a servant, ordered him to deliver the letter at once to Miss Moran.  And as Cornelia lingered a little among the aster beds, the man put it into her own hands.  She bowed and smiled as she accepted it, but Rem, watching with his heart in his eyes, could see that it awakened no special interest.  She kept it unopened as she wandered among the purple and pink, and gold and white flowers, until Mrs. Moran came to the door to hurry her movements; then she followed her mother hastily into the house, “Do you know how late it is, Cornelia?  Dinner is nearly ready.  There is a letter on your dressing table that came by Lieutenant Hyde’s servant two or three hours ago.”

“And Tobias has just brought me a letter from Rem—­at least the direction is in Rem’s handwriting.”

“Some farewell dance I suppose, before our dancers go to gay Philadelphia.”

“I dare say it is.”  She made the supposition as she went up the stairs, and did not for a moment anticipate any more important information.  As she entered her room an imposing looking letter met her eyes—­a letter written upon the finest paper, squarely folded, and closed with a large seal of scarlet wax carrying the Hyde arms.  Poor Rem’s message lost instantly whatever interest it possessed; she let it fall from her hand, and lifting Hyde’s, opened it with that marvellous womanly impetuosity which love teaches.  Then all the sweet intimate ardour and passionate disquietude of her lover took possession of her.  In a moment she felt all that he felt; all the ecstasy and tumult of a great affection not sure.  For this letter was the “little more” in Hyde’s love, and, oh, how much it was!