So I took the letter and saw it was this:
DEAREST PAL AND NOBLEST OF MEN: My poor heart is breaking, I think, and knowing how true I and deep is your love for me I would not have you see my pain. So I have run away from you awhile—fled away to the Silent Places like the poor, hurt creature I am. There I mean to hide until my wound is a little healed and then I shall come back to you, my dear, that I may surround you with my love and teach you how inexpressibly dear you are to Your would-be daughter and ever loving, grateful, DIANA.
"Has she money, sir?" I enquired, returning the letter.
"Very, very little, I fear."
"Then she cannot have gone very far."
"Ah, Peregrine—" the proud, old head drooped and the hand that crept upon my dusty coat sleeve was very thin and tremulous; "ah, Peregrine, if you love her, find her again—find her for Love's sake—and the sake of a desolate—heartsick—old man!"
"Sir," I answered, covering this twitching hand with my own, "I will—bring her back to you—if I have to travel the world over—I will find her if it takes me all my life and every penny I possess!"
Then, mounting my horse, I swung him round and galloped away without further word of farewell or so much as one backward glance.