These were her last words, and however long both may live, I have a conviction that they will be her last words—to Francis Charteris.
He went back to the cottage; and through the rosy spring twilight, with a strangely solemn feeling, as if we were entering upon a new spring in another world, Penelope and I drove home.
And now, Max, I have told you all about these. About myself—No, I'll not try to deceive you; God knows how true my heart is, and how sharp and sore is this pain.
Dear Max, write to me;—if there is any trouble, I can bear it; any wrong—supposing Max could do me wrong—I'll forgive. I fear nothing, and nothing has power to grieve me, so long as you hold me fast, as I hold you.
Your faithful
Theodora.
P.S.—A wonderful, wonderful thing—it only happened last night. It hardly feels real yet.
Max, last night, after I had done reading, papa mentioned your name of his own accord.
He said, Penelope in asking his leave, as we thought it right to do before we sent that message to Lydia, had told him the whole story about your goodness to Francis. He then enquired abruptly how long it was since I had seen Doctor Urquhart?
I told him, never since that day in the library—now a year ago.