silence was continuing with the squire her short journey to Bath. The
latter was very inquisitive to know why Clifford had gone, and what he
had avowed; and Lucy, scarcely able to answer, threw everything on the
promised letter of the night.

"I am glad," muttered the squire to her, "that he is going to write; for,
somehow or other, though I questioned him very tightly, he slipped
through my cross-examination, and bursting out at once as to his love for
you, left me as wise about himself as I was before: no doubt (for my own
part I don't see what should prevent his being a great man incog.)this
letter will explain all!"

Late that night the letter came. Lucy, fortunately for her, was alone in
her room; she opened it, and read as follows:--


CLIFFORD'S LETTER.

I have promised to write to you, and I sit down to perform that
promise. At this moment the recollection of your goodness, your
generous consideration, is warm within me: and while I must choose
calm and common words to express what I ought to say, my heart is
alternately melted and torn by thoughts which would ask words, oh
how different! Your father has questioned me often of my parentage
and birth,--I have hitherto eluded his interrogatories. Learn now
who I am. In a wretched abode, surrounded by the inhabitants of
poverty and vice, I recall my earliest recollections. My father is
unknown to me as to every one; my mother,--to you I dare not mention
who or what she was,--she died in my infancy. Without a name, but
not without an inheritance (my inheritance was large,--it was