"I still fear my chances are but small; but do, I entreat you, take time to think over this. No matter what your answer may be, I am and ever shall be
"Your faithful and devoted
"Malcolm Johnson.
"December 8, 189-."
After Caroline had read this letter twice, she drew out another, spotless and freshly written, and breaking the seal, read:
"Beacon Street.
"My dear Mr. Johnson:
"I was very sorry to receive your letter this morning. Pray don't think I blame you for writing—but indeed you think much too highly of me. I am not at all fitted to assume such serious duties as being at the head of your family would involve, and it would only be a disappointment to you if I did. I have had no experience, and I should feel it wrong to undertake it, even if I could return your generous affection as it deserves. Indeed, I don't value money, or any of those things; but I do not want to give up my friends and all my own ways of life, unless I loved you. I am so sorry I can't—but surely you will not blame me, for I never dreamed of this, or I would have tried to let you know my thoughts sooner.
"I am sure my aunt would disapprove. Highly as she esteems you, she would think me too young, and not at all the right kind of wife for you. I shall not breathe a word to her or to anyone, and I hope you will soon forget this, and find some one who will really be a good wife to you and a devoted mother to your children. No one will be more delighted at this than
"Your sincere friend,
"Caroline Alice Foster.
"December 9, 189-."
This letter, which Caroline had spent three hours in writing, and copied six times, she now tore into small pieces and threw them into the fireplace. The fire was out, and the grate was black, so she lighted a match and watched till every scrap was consumed to ashes, when she sat down at her desk and, heedless of the chilly room, wrote with a flying pen:
"Beacon Street.