That the letter had been received was more than probable, almost certain.
Every possible interpretation that common sense allowed Lord Cairnforth gave to her silence, and all failed.

Then he let the question rest.

To distrust her, Helen, his one pure image of perfection, was impossible.
He felt it would have killed him--not his outer life, perhaps, but the life of his heart, his belief in human goodness.
So he still waited, nor judged her either as daughter or friend, but contented himself with doing her apparently neglected duty for her-- making himself an elder brother to Duncan, and a son to the minister, and never missing a day without spending some hours at the Manse.
For almost the first time since her departure, Helen's regular monthly letter did not arrive, and the earl grew seriously alarmed.

In the utmost perplexity, he was resolving in his own mind what next step to take--how, and how much he ought to tell of his anxieties to her father--when all difficulties were solved in the sharpest and yet easiest way by a letter from Helen herself--a letter so unlike Helen's, so un-neat, blurred, and blotted, that at first he did not even recognize it as hers.
"To the Right Honorable the Earl of Cairnforth: "My Lord,--I have only just found your letter.

The money inclosed was not there.