you to have received my letter to-morrow, in time to prevent any little
imprudence into which your anxiety might hurry you. All that I _can_
say to you is said there. Spare me the distress of speaking. Read it,
Blanche."

Blanche still held the letter, unopened.

"A letter from you to me! when we are both together, and both alone
in the same room! It's worse than formal, Anne! It's as if there was a
quarrel between us. Why should it distress you to speak to me?"

Anne's eyes dropped to the ground. She pointed to the letter for the
second time.

Blanche broke the seal.

She passed rapidly over the opening sentences, and devoted all her
attention to the second paragraph.

"And now, my love, you will expect me to atone for the surprise and
distress that I have caused you, by explaining what my situation really
is, and by telling you all my plans for the future. Dearest Blanche!
don't think me untrue to the affection we bear toward each other--don't
think there is any change in my heart toward you--believe only that I
am a very unhappy woman, and that I am in a position which forces me,
against my own will, to be silent about myself. Silent even to you, the
sister of my love--the one person in the world who is dearest to me!
A time may come when I shall be able to open my heart to you. Oh, what
good it will do me! what a relief it will be! For the present, I must be
silent. For the present, we must be parted. God knows what it costs me