"Timloesville, June 10, half past 8 P.M.
"Dear Anne,—I sent you a few lines from New York, written on my way to the train, but now that I have time, I feel that something more is due to you. I found Ward at a little hospital, his right arm injured, but not seriously. He will not be able to use it readily for some time; it is in a sling. But he is so much better that they have allowed us to start homeward. We are travelling slowly—more, however, on my account than his. I long to have the journey over.
"Dear Anne, I have thought over all our conversation—all that you told me, all that I replied. I am so inexpressibly happy to-night, as I sit here writing, that I can and will do you justice, and tell all the truth—the part that I have hitherto withheld. And that is, Anne, that your influence over him was for good, and that your pain and effort have not been thrown away. You asked him to bear his part in life bravely, and he has borne it; you asked him to come back to me, and he did come back. If you were any other woman on earth, I would never confess this—confess that I owe to you my happiness of last winter, when he changed, even in his letters, to greater kindness; confess that it was your influence which made him, when he came home later, so much more watchful and gentle in his care of, his manner toward, me. I noticed the change on the first instant, the first letter, and it made my heart bound. If it had been possible, I should have gone to him then, but it was not. He had rejoined his regiment, and I could only watch for his letters like a girl of sixteen. When he did come home, I counted every hour of that short visit as so much happiness greater than I had ever known before. For I had always loved him, and now he loved me.
"Do not contradict me; he does love me. At least he is so dear to me, and so kind and tender, that I do not know whether he does or not, but am content. You are a better, nobler woman; yet I have the happiness.
"He does not know that I have seen you, and I shall never tell him. He does not know that I know what an effort he has made. But every kind act and tone goes to my heart. For I did deceive him, Anne; and if it had not been for that deception, probably he would not now be my husband—he would be free.
"Yet good has come out of evil this time, perhaps on account of my deep love. No wife was ever so thankfully happy as I am to-night, and on my knees I have thanked my Creator for giving me that which makes my life one long joy.
"He has come in, and is sitting opposite, reading. He does not know to whom I am writing—does not dream what I am saying. And he must never know: I can not rise to that.
"No, Anne, we must not meet, at least for the present. It is better so, and you yourself will feel that it is. But when I reach home I will write again, and then you will answer.
"Always, with warm love, your friend, Helen."
During the reading of this letter, the prisoner for the first time sat with his head bowed, his face shaded by his hand. Miss Teller's sobs could be heard. Anne, too, broke down, and wept silently.