It is burnt. The ashes of his farewell letter⁠—the last he may ever write to me⁠—lie in a few black fragments on the hearth. Is this the sad end to all that sad story? Oh, not the end⁠—surely, surely not the end already!

28th .⁠—This morning I read poor Hartright’s farewell letter over again, a doubt having crossed my mind since yesterday, whether I am acting wisely in concealing the fact of his departure from Laura.