if I had not informed him of the experiment
which I am going to try with Mr. Blake. And
I hardly know what undesirable results might
not have happened, if I had taken him into my
confidence, Better as it is. Unquestionably,
better as it is.

The post brought me Miss Verinder's answer,
after Mr. Candy had left the house.

A charming letter! It gives me the highest
opinion of her. There is no attempt to conceal
the interest that she feels in our proceedings.
She tells me, in the prettiest manner, that my
letter has satisfied her of Mr. Blake's innocence,
without the slightest need (so far as she is
concerned) of putting my assertion to the proof.
She even upbraids herself—most undeservedly,
poor thing!—for not having divined at the
time what the true solution of the mystery
might really be. The motive underlying all
this, proceeds evidently from something more
than a generous eagerness to make atonement
for a wrong which she has innocently inflicted
on another person. It is plain that she has
loved him, throughout the estrangement between
them. In more than one place, the rapture of
discovering that he has deserved to be loved,
breaks its way innocently through the stoutest
formalities of pen and ink, and even defies the
stronger restraint still of writing to a stranger.
Is it possible (I ask myself, in reading this
delightful letter) that I, of all men in the world,
am chosen to be the means of bringing these
two young people together again? My own
happiness has been trampled under foot; my
own love has been torn from me. Shall I live
to see a happiness of others, which is of my
making—a love renewed, which is of my bringing
back? Oh merciful Death, let me see it
before your arms enfold me, before your voice
whispers to me, 'Rest at last!'

There are two requests contained in the
letter. One of them prevents me from showing
it to Mr. Franklin Blake. I am authorised to
tell him that Miss Verinder willingly consents
to place her house at our disposal; and, that
said, I am desired to add no more.

So far, it is easy to comply with her wishes.
But the second request embarrasses me
seriously.

Not content with having written to Mr.
Betteredge, instructing him to carry out
whatever directions I may have to give, Miss
Verinder asks leave to assist me, by personally
superintendiug the restoration of her own
sitting-room. She only waits a word of reply
from me, to make the journey to Yorkshire,
and to be present as one of the witnesses on
the night when the opium is tried for the second
time.

Here, again, there is a motive under the
surface; and, here again, I fancy that I can find
it out.

What she has forbidden me to tell Mr.
Franklin Blake, she is (as I interpret it) eager
to tell him with her own lips, before he is
put to the test which is to vindicate his
character in the eyes of other people. I
understand and admire this generous anxiety to
acquit him, without waiting until his
innocence may, or may not, be proved. It is the
atonement that she is longing to make, poor
girl, after having innocently and inevitably
wronged him. But the thing cannot be done.
I have no sort of doubt that the agitation
which a meeting between them would produce
on both sides—the old feelings which it would
revive, the new hopes which it would awaken
—would, in their effect on the mind of Mr. Blake,
be almost certainly fatal to the success of our
experiment. It is hard enough, as things are,
to reproduce in him the conditions as they
existed, or nearly as they existed, last year.
With new interests and new emotions to
agitate him, the attempt would be simply
useless.

And yet, knowing this, I cannot find it in
my heart to disappoint her. I must try if I
can discover some new arrangement, before
post-time, which will allow me to say Yes to
Miss Verinder, without damage to the service
which I have bound myself to render to Mr.
Franklin Blake.

Two o'clock.—I have just returned from my
round of medical visits; having begun, of
course, by calling at the hotel.

Mr. Blake's report of the night is the same as
before. He has had some intervals of broken
sleep, and no more. But he feels it less to-day,
having slept after yesterday's dinner. This
after-dinner sleep is the result, no doubt, of
the ride which I advised him to take. I fear I
shall have to curtail his restorative exercise in
the fresh air. He must not be too well; he
must not be too ill. It is a case (as the sailors
would say) of very fine steering.

He has not heard yet from Mr. Bruff. I
found him eager to know if I had received any
answer from Miss Verinder.

I told him exactly what I was permitted to
tell, and no more. It was quite needless to
invent excuses for not showing him the letter.
He told me bitterly enough, poor fellow,
that he understood the delicacy which
disinclined me to produce it. "She consents, of
course, as a matter of common courtesy and
common justice," he said. "But she keeps
her own opinion of me, and waits to see the
result." I was sorely tempted to hint that he
was now wronging her as she had wronged
him. On reflection, I shrank from forestalling
her in the double luxury of surprising and
forgiving him.

My visit was a very short one. After the
experience of the other night, I have been
compelled once more to give up my dose of
opium. As a necessary result, the agony of
the disease that is in me has got the upper
hand again. I felt the attack coming on, and
left abruptly, so as not to alarm or distress him.
It only lasted a quarter of an hour this time,
and it left me strength enough to go on with
my work.

'Five o'clock.—I have written my reply to
Miss Verinder.