I went away again after this, and left her alone in the quiet shady room. I fought rather a battle with myself as I paced up and down Lady Betty's spacious chamber. Why need I think of my own troubles? why could I not keep down this pain? I would think only of Gladys's and of my dear Max's happiness, and I dashed away hot tears that would keep blinding me as I remembered the chilly greeting of the morning. And yet once—but no; I would not recall that bitter-sweet memory. I left Gladys alone for an hour: when I went back she was leaning wearily against the cushions of her chair, the closely-written sheets still open on her lap, as though she needed the evidence of sight and touch to remind her that it was not part of her dream.
'Have you written your letter, Gladys?'
'Yes,' with a blush; 'but it is very short, only a few words. He will understand that I am weak and cannot exert myself much. Will you read it, Ursula, and tell me if it will do?'
I thought it better to set her mind at rest, so I took it without demur. The pretty, clear handwriting was rather tremulous: he would be sorry to see that.
'My dear Mr. Cunliffe,'—it said,—'Your letter has made me very happy. I wish I could answer it as it ought to be answered; but I know you will not misunderstand the reason why I say so little.
'I have been very ill, and am still very weak, and my hand trembles too much when I try to write; but I am not ungrateful for all the kind things you say; it makes me very happy to know you feel like that, even though I do not deserve it.
'You must not blame yourself so much for misunderstanding me: we have both been deceived; I know that now. It was wrong of me to give up my work; but Etta told me that people were saying unkind things of me, and I was a coward and listened to her: so you see I was to blame too.
'I have not answered your question yet, but I think I will do so by signing myself,
'Yours, always and for ever,
'Gladys.'