She pondered it until she was called to dinner.  There was then no time to read Rem’s letter, but she broke the seal and glanced at its tenor, and an expression of pity and annoyance came into her eyes.  Hastily she locked both letters away in a drawer of her desk, and as she did so, smilingly said to herself, “I wonder if papers are sensitive!  Shut close together in one little drawer will they like it?  I hope they will lie peaceably and not quarrel.”

Doctor Moran was not at home, nor was he expected until sundown, so mother and daughter enjoyed together the confidence which Hyde’s letter induced.  Mrs. Moran thought the young man was right, and promised, to a certain extent, to favour his proposal.  “However, Cornelia,” she added, “unless your father is perfectly agreeable and satisfied, I would not advise you to make any engagement.  Clandestine engagements come to grief in some way or other, and if your marriage with Joris Hyde is prearranged by those who know what is best for your good, then, my dear, it is as sure to take place as the sun is sure to rise to-morrow.  It is only waiting for the appointed hour, and you may as well wait in a happy home as in one you make wretched by the fret and complaining which a secret in any life is certain to produce.”

Now, it is not often that a girl has to answer in one hour two such epistles as those received by Cornelia.  Yet perhaps such an event occurs more frequently than is suspected, for Love—­like other things—­has its critical moment; and when that moment arrives it finds a voice as surely as the flower ready to bloom opens its petals.  And if there be two lovers equally sincere, both are likely to feel at the same moment the same impetus to revelation.  Besides which, Fate of any kind seeks the unusual and the unexpected; it desires to startle, and to force events by surprises.

The answering of these letters was naturally Cornelia’s first afternoon thought.  It troubled her to remember that Joris had already been waiting some hours for a reply, for she had no hesitation as to what that reply should be.  To write to Joris was a delightful thing, an unusual pleasure, and she sat down, smiling, to pen the lines which she thought would bring her much happiness, but which were doomed to bring her a great sorrow.

My Joris!  My dear Friend: 

’Tis scarce an hour since I received your letter, but I have read it over four times.  And whatever you desire, that also is my desire; and I am deceived as much as you, if you think I do not love you as much as I am loved by you.  You know my heart, and from you I shall never hide it; and I think if I were asleep, I should tell you how much I love you; for, indeed, I often dream that I do so.  Come, then, this very night as soon as you think convenient.  If my father is in a suitable temper it will be well to speak plainly to him, and I am sure that my mother will say in our favour all that is wise.