up an oar. Charlotte got in, and Edward with her--he took the other oar;
but as he was on the point of pushing off, he thought of Ottilie--he
recollected that this water-party would keep him out late; who could
tell when he would get back? He made up his mind shortly and promptly;
sprang back to the bank, and reaching the other oar to the Captain,
hurried home--making excuses to himself as he ran.

Arriving there he learnt that Ottilie had shut herself up--she was
writing. In spite of the agreeable feeling that she was doing something
for him, it was the keenest mortification to him not to be able to see
her. His impatience increased every moment. He walked up and down the
large drawing-room; he tried a thousand things, and could not fix his
attention upon any. He was longing to see her alone, before Charlotte
came back with the Captain. It was dark by this time, and the candles
were lighted.

At last she came in beaming with loveliness: the sense that she had done
something for her friend had lifted all her being above itself. She put
down the original and her transcript on the table before Edward.

"Shall we collate them?" she said, with a smile.

Edward did not know what to answer. He looked at her--he looked at the
transcript. The first few sheets were written with the greatest
carefulness in a delicate woman's hand--then the strokes appeared to
alter, to become more light and free--but who can describe his surprise
as he ran his eyes over the concluding page? "For heaven's sake," he
cried, "what is this? this is my hand!" He looked at Ottilie, and again
at the paper; the conclusion, especially, was exactly as if he had
written it himself. Ottilie said nothing, but she looked at him with her