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had been mainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at
last that she would do well to take a book; formerly, when
heavy-hearted, she had been able, with the help of some
well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat of consciousness
to the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to be de-
nied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she
had reminded herself that her uncle’s library was provided
with a complete set of those authors which no gentleman’s
collection should be without, she sat motionless and empty-
handed, her eyes bent on the cool green turf of the lawn.
Her meditations were presently interrupted by the arrival of
a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the Lon-
don postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew—that
came into her vision, already so held by him, with the vivid-
ness of the writer’s voice or his face. This document proved
short and may be given entire.
MY DEAR MISS ARCHER—I don’t know whether you
will have heard of my coming to England, but even if you
have not it will scarcely be a surprise to you. You will re-
member that when you gave me my dismissal at Albany,
three months ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it.
You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to admit that
I had the right on my side. I had come to see you with the
hope that you would let me bring you over to my convic-
tion; my reasons for entertaining this hope had been of the
best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed, and you
were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted
that you were unreasonable, and it was the only concession
you would make; but it was a very cheap one, because that’s

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