I begged, I implored her not to desert me at her mother's bidding.
My letter I posted, so that it should not be stopped en route, and returned to me unread by my darling, whom I asked to write to me, if only one line, to tell me that she had really received my appeal safely--requesting her, also, to reply to me at my office that I might get her answer in the soonest possible time.
I dreamt of her subsequently, the whole night through:--it was a horrible dream! A third day of torture in my governmental mill.

Six mortal hours more of dreary misery; and, helpless boredom at the hands of Smith, Brown, Jones, and Robinson! And, then, I got my reply.
It was "only a line." Very short, very sweet, very bitter, very pointed; and yet, I value that little letter so highly that I would not exchange it for the world! The words are stained with tear-drops that, I know, fell from loving, grey eyes; while, its sense, though painful, is sweet to me from its outspoken truthfulness:--I value it so highly, that I could not deem it more precious, if it were written on a golden tablet in characters set with diamonds--were it the longest letter maiden ever wrote, the sweetest billet lover ever received! "_Frank! I cannot, I must not grant your request.

Do not wring my heart by writing to me again, or speaking to me; for, I have promised, and we are not to see each other any more.

I am breaking my word in writing to you now, but, oh! do not think badly of me.

Indeed, indeed, I am not heartless, Frank.