"What do you think, Andree?"

"It has only begun," she said. "Wait, King of Ys. Read that other
letter."

Her eyes were fascinated by the black border. He opened it with a
strange slowness. It began without any form of address, it had the
superscription of a street in Manchester Square:

If you were not in deep trouble I would not write. But because I
know that more hard things than kind will be said by others, I want
to say what is in my heart, which is quick to feel for you. I know
that you have sinned, but I pray for you every day, and I cannot
believe that God will not answer. Oh! think of the wrong that you
have done: of the wrong to the girl, to her soul's good. Think of
that, and right the wrong in so far as you can. Oh, Gaston, my
brother, I need not explain why I write thus. My grandfather,
before he died, three weeks ago, told me that you know!--and I also
have known ever since the day you saved the boy. Ah, think of one
who would give years of her life to see you good and noble and
happy. . . .

Then followed a deep, sincere appeal to his manhood, and afterwards a
wish that their real relations should be made known to the world if he
needed her, or if disaster came; that she might share and comfort his
life, whatever it might be. Then again:

If you love her, and she loves you, and is sorry for what she has
done, marry her and save her from everlasting shame. I am staying
with my grandfather's cousin, the Dean of Dighbury, the father of