'
Her strength was spent. She put aside her sewing and moved towards
the door.
'Where are you going?'
'I don't feel well. I must rest.'
'Just stop a minute. I've something here I want td show you.'
She turned wearily. Mutimer took a letter from his pocket.
'Will you read that?'
She took it. It was written in a very clear, delicate hand, and ran
thus:--
'DEAR SIR,--I who address you have lain for two years on a bed from
which I shall never move till I am carried to my grave. My age is
three-and-twenty; an accident which happened to me a few days after
my twenty-first birthday left me without the use of my limbs; it
often seems to me that it would have been better if I had died, but
there is no arguing with fate, and the wise thing is to accept
cheerfully whatever befalls us. I hoped at one time to take an
active part in life, and my interest in the world's progress is as
strong as ever, especially in everything that concerns social
reform. I have for some time known your name, and have constantly
sought information about your grand work at New Wanley. Now I
venture to write (by the hand of a dear friend), to express my
admiration for your high endeavour, and my grief at the
circumstances which have made you powerless to continue it.
'I am possessed of means, and, as you see, can spend but little on
myself.
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