"I shall keep you here now. You will not wish to be at home again for some time."
"No, ma'am. No indeed I shall not."
"What are you going to do about Mr. Carlisle?"
"I shall write to-morrow. Or to-night."
"And tell him?—"
"The plain truth, aunt Caxton. I mean, the truth of the fact, of course. It is very hard!"—said Eleanor sorrowfully.
"It is doubtless hard; but it is the least of all the choice of evils you have left yourself. Write to-night,—and here, if you will. If you can without being disturbed by me."
"The sight of you will only help me, aunt Caxton. But I did not know the harm I was doing when I entered into all this."
"I believe it. Go and write your letter."
Eleanor brought her paper-case and sat down at the table. Mrs. Caxton ordered other lights and was mutely busy at her own table. Not a word was spoken for a good while. It was with a strange mixture of pain and bursting gladness that Eleanor wrote the letter which she hoped would set her free. But the gladness was enough to make her sure it ought to be written; and the pain enough to make it a bitter piece of work. The letter was finished, folded, sealed; and with a sigh Eleanor closed her paper-case.