The following week, Mr Thornton came down to breakfast, having slept little. He was tired, and felt as though he had aged ten years; no energy or drive did he have, to set about his day with vigour. If it was the threat of closure looming over on him, or the thought that he might never win Isabel, he could not rightly say, but his limbs felt heavy, and he had about him, uncharacteristically slumped shoulders.

Made worse was his low mood, by the news that Mr Watson's speculation had been a success (as predicted by his banker). Fanny was immodest in her censure of her brother's supposed foolishness, and was quick to upbraid him for having failed to take up the scheme, which would have undoubtedly saved the mill. Indeed, only the previous evening, had Fanny castigated John, citing his stubborn refusal to join the speculation, as the very reason that the family was now almost certain to lose their home and mill.

Mrs Thornton - naturally an early riser - was already at the table when her disheartened son entered the dining room, and she sat across from him, studying him with concerned maternal eyes. That proud, erect posture had fled with the night, and now the shoulders sagged, and the spine curved forward in resignation. He was dark beneath the eyes, and his complexion was pale. It pained her to see him thus, and she knew not what to do, nor how to comfort him, for he was not a young boy any longer; he did not need a mother's words of encouragement to give him the confidence to stand up amongst men. He was now a grown man, and the fall from his lofty height would be more painful and bitter, than the fall he had taken as a boy.

'What is this, Mother?' asked Mr Thornton, looking questioningly at a white letter, sat upon the sideboard.

'It is a letter for you. It was dropped by the front gates, but Williams could not say when; only that it was there when he awoke,' replied Mrs Thornton, anxiously; fearful, lest it was some bill, or a letter which brought further bad tidings for their fortunes.

Mr Thornton rose from his chair and picked it up inquisitively, only to turn it over and see his name written upon it in pencil. He paused - the letter held tightly in his hand - as his eyes blinked at his name upon the paper. That writing - so inelegant, and in pencil! He felt an intrepid beating of his heart, and he had to force himself to calm his breath, when all he wished to do was pant, as some indescribable, but violent, emotion swelled within his breast. It was from her!

'John?' called Mrs Thornton, concerned by her son's peculiar reaction to the letter. 'Do you know what it is?' She could not bear the agony of not knowing.

'No, Mother.' And he sat heavily in his chair, and cautiously opened the letter. Out came a banker's draft, and he frowned at it as he looked at the sum. 'Eighteen thousand and fifty seven pounds,' whispered he, in disbelief.

'What was that, John?'

'Eighteen thousand and fifty seven pounds, Mother.' Mrs Thornton was immediately from her chair and stood beside her son, staring incredulously at the draft.

'What a sum of money!'

'Yes,' was his simple reply, as he shook his head in consternation. And now his hands trembled as he picked up the second bundle of folded paper, and as he smoothed it flat he saw - to his utter incredulity - that he looked upon the deeds to Marlborough Mills, made out in his name.

'John!' gasped Mrs Thornton, clutching at the table to steady herself. 'That is your name! You are now the owner of this mill - and this house! We shall not lose our home.'

'But how, Mother? Miss Darrow owned this property, and she has given it to me!' And he rifled quickly though the sheets of paper, until he found a small note; again, written in pencil.

"John, I am pleased that you did not speculate; you would not be the John Thornton I know and admire, if you had. Neither would you be the John Thornton I know, if you were not also the Master of Marlborough Mills. The money is nothing to me - a third of which was earned through Watson's speculation - entered into on a whim. What should I do with it, but give it to you? Your faithful friend, Isabel."

'Mother!' said Mr Thornton, leaping from his chair, his heart beating wildly in his breast. 'Mother, I must go to Crampton. At once!'

'But it is early, John.'

'No! It is late. I am many weeks - many months! - late.'

The Hales had gone out for a walk with Dr Lyndhurst, who was to return to Oxford to-morrow, to see to the last of his affairs, before returning to settle in Milton. Isabel - not wanting to intrude on Margaret's time with the doctor - had pleaded a headache. She was occupied with her copy of Plato, and curled up against the warmth of a generous fire, when Dixon came noisily to the door, and announced Mr Thornton. The book was immediately set aside, and as Dixon pulled the door to (but not closed) and lumbered back down the stairs to the kitchen, the pair were left facing each other from across the room. The air was thick, and both drew laboured breaths, their eyes clinging to the others' with ardour.

'You gave me your mill,' was Mr Thornton's softly-spoken greeting.

'It is your mill. It has always been yours; even when it belonged to Mr Bell, it was yours.'

'When it belonged to your father.'

'You know?' frowned Isabel, blinking in confusion.

'Dr Lyndhurst told me. I had thought -' And here he paused, and had the grace to blush, 'I had thought Mr Bell's interest in you of - of a different kind.'

'Oh! No! He is - was - old.'

'Yes.'

'Besides, I said I loved none but you.'

'You did,' said Mr Thornton, drawing closer, his gaze unflinching. 'Can you love me still?'

'I could not stop loving you if I tried, and I do not wish to try.' For although she had only truly known the man since arriving in Milton, she had loved him for some fifteen years.

'And I, with you.' He reached out his hand and curled his fingers about hers. 'You have saved my mill, my love. You know that means I shall have to marry you; that I cannot accept no for an answer?'

'I did not give you the money you need, nor the deeds to the mill, to entice you here to Crampton,' trembled she; flushed with mortification.

'I know that; you have no wiles, my Izzy.'

'Izzy!'

'I heard you call yourself Izzy when you spoke to yourself the evening we first met Dr Lyndhurst. You are known as Izzy?'

'Not by anyone here.'

'But you have been?'

'Yes.'

'And you liked it?'

'Yes.' Mr Thornton squeezed her hand tenderly, and gently pulled her towards him.

'Then you shall be my Izzy.'

'But can you forgive -' She coughed and flushed and looked down to the floor, and he knew what she alluded to. His blood flowed thick and his breathing deepened.

'My love,' urged he, 'I can forgive anything, but tell me you forgive my wicked words to you? It was an evil thing to say. I was mad with jealousy and could have wept at hurting you; so much did I regret my words, no sooner than I had spoken them.'

'You can reconcile yourself to my lost virtue?' asked Isabel, in disbelief.

'It was a long time ago, my love. I am jealous - I cannot deny it - but we did not know one another; I had no claim to you.'

'There is nothing to be jealous of,' whispered Isabel, snatching her hand from his and turning away.

'Izzy!' And he stepped closer and looked at her from behind her shoulder, and saw that she was crying. 'Izzy, dearest?' now pleading with her, so that he might understand her tears.

'I must tell you - you must know it - but oh! I cannot bear to say it. And there are so many things I must admit to before I can answer you; you may not wish to have me once I have spoken.' He shook his head in defiance, and took her firmly by the hand, leading her to the sofa.

'Sit, and say what you must say, and then I shall offer myself to you again, and this time you shall say yes,' said Mr Thornton, with tender determination.

'Then wait here, and I shall be a moment. I have something I must show you.' And she slipped quietly to her room, opened her closet and took out her munitions tin, carrying it back to the drawing room with trepidation.

'I must tell you something that can make no sense to you, for it makes no sense to me, and it is my life; I who have lived it.' And she placed the tin into Mr Thornton's hands, clenching her fists to bid herself courage. 'I have not lived my whole life overseas. I lived a few years in Italy, but have very little memory of it. Then I came back to England as an orphan, and lived in Kent. I lived in Kent - in different homes, with different families - who were paid to look after me - until I was eighteen years of age. I went to school and was thought quite clever, so I went to university and studied to become a doctor.'

'University? In England!' frowned Mr Thornton.

'Please; do not interrupt. You must hear it all before you ask questions,' urged Isabel, gently. 'After I finished my studies, I joined the army, to become a medical soldier, caring for sick and injured soldiers, or victims of famine and disease in foreign lands. I was only a soldier for a few years, before I was caught up in a place you know as Mesopotamia. There was a war there; the British patrol the lands to keep them safe, but the enemy attacks us with guns, and bombs hidden in the ground, and when we walk on them, they go off, and men are killed.

'I was there, John, and I saw my friends die when they got caught up by these buried explosives. I tried to save them - it was my responsibility as the doctor - but there was so much blood! It covered my hands until my skin was stained red; I could not see my own skin for blood.' And as she shuddered at the recollection, Mr Thornton set the munitions tin down upon his lap, and took her hand in his, brushing his thumb across the back of it in a soothing, tender gesture. 'I was trying to help my friend - but I knew he would die - and I got caught up in gunfire, and was shot in the leg. I fell down, and there was an explosion nearby, and I got caught by it.'

'The scars that Dr Donaldson found on you back, and on your leg?' frowned Mr Thornton; his head numb with confusion; his heart pained at the thought of her suffering.

'Yes. I did say he was a gossip; that you should know of such a thing! And so I was hurt and the British soldiers had to take me to safety. I was caught with a piece of metal in my back and had surgery, and they sent me back to England to recover. My wounds healed, but my mind, John; my mind was damaged by what I had seen; by all of that blood on my hands. I could not work. I could not sleep; I was plagued by dreams, and I was sent to see a head doctor.'

'In Kent? And his name was Dr Lyndhurst, no doubt?'

'Indeed, it was, but here is the part you shall not believe at all. I had an appointment with my doctor, and he said I needed to find my "home". I thought to go to Oxford - where I was born; I had no friends at all, and no one who could miss me. He told me that life was whatever we saw it to be; that we create our own reality in our minds, and in thinking it, we make it real. We spoke of Plato, and the allegory of the cave, and he called me the cave dweller - my world about me nothing but shadows. He urged me to step outside and see the sunlight, and we spoke, and reasoned what the truth of reality could be - out there in the sunlight.

'And then we spoke of books; could not a work of fiction become real if the mind allowed it to be so? If Descartes said "I think, therefore I am", then why not "I think, therefore it is"? It is nonsensical, I know. It made no sense to me, but the idea amused me, and so I went home and thought of my favourite book, and what it would be like to find that world within the pages - the characters, the places, to be real. And then the following day, on my way to Oxford, I lost that tin you have there, and I had to go to lost luggage to see if it had been handed in at the train station. It was there; I took it, and when I stepped back onto the platform, I found myself not in London, but in Milton. Immediately, Mr Hale was greeting me as his goddaughter, and then Margaret and I looked at houses, before returning to the hotel, where you were waiting to speak with Mr Hale. I knew then, that I was living within the book.'

'The book?'

'Open that tin, John.' Mr Thornton was bewildered, but did as he was bid, and carefully unlatched the clasp and slowly lifted the lid of the tin, only to promptly close it again. There, within the tin, he had seen printed, coloured pictures, but they did not look like drawings or paintings, but sharp and focused daguerreotypes, and his eyes were blinded by the vision. 'I did not mean to startle you, John.'

'You did not. I -' But he shook his head and removed the lid once more, peering in with blinking eyes. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip, and tentatively reached inside, picking up a coloured image between his fingers. It felt cold and smooth to the touch, and he brought it close to his face, seeing how sharp the picture was. 'It is like seeing it before me, with my own eyes.'

'Yes. It is a photograph, and they come in colour.'

'And these people; what are they wearing?' asked he, frowning at their peculiar dress.

'They are soldiers, and they are wearing clothes which camouflages them in the desert.'

'Soldiers! Soldiers do not dress like that.' And now he felt his heart race, and a pressure built within his chest, silently telling him that he was wholly unprepared for what would come.

'They do were I am from,' insisted Isabel, gently. 'Look closer John; that is me in that picture; on the far left.'

'In trousers!' said he, in disbelief, and he squinted at the image, seeing, beneath the shadow of her helmet, those hazel eyes, glinting in the baking sun.

'Men and woman are equal where I am from; a woman may wear trousers, and do the same work as a man.' Frowning, Mr Thornton set the picture aside, and reached for another image. He saw Isabel's face clearly, and she was smiling back at him, but her arms were bare and she wore a strange garment which clung to her slender form, shamelessly showing her feminine curves.

'What is this?' asked Mr Thornton; his voice gruff, as his eyes stared at her image. 'What are you wearing? Why does that man have his arm about you?' And he could not keep the note of jealous accusation from his voice. 'Is this the man; the man you gave your virtue to?'

'No, John,' replied Isabel, sadly. 'Look at this sheet of newspaper.' He took the proffered paper from the tin, and looked down at the coloured images which spoke of a savage desert battle, and grave loss of life.

'This is in colour, too!'

'Yes, but look at the date.' Scanning the page, his eyes widened in confusion.

'Thirteenth of May -'

'Two thousand and thirteen,' finished she. 'The year is more than one hundred and sixty years after this date.'

'Then you are from the future?' asked he, in disbelief. Subconsciously, he reached back into the tin, and curled his fingers around something soft and smooth; a gummy, rubber feel to it, but of the brightest, most garish pink he had ever seen. The texture and colour were so foreign to him, he could not rightly understand what it was he held within his hand.

'This is a phone, John. It is a device which is held to the face. You speak into it, and another person, in a different part of the town, or county - or even country! - will speak into their own phone, and their voice will sound in your ear. Technology has advanced beyond anything you can comprehend. For you, the telegraph is a great innovation, but it is nothing to the telephone. This phone - which I may carry on my person - has changed the modern world, and your telegraph is quite replaced. Let me show you; it is a means of more than simply relaying a message from one place to another.' And she took the phone from him, and pressed a button on the side, so that it lit up with strange coloured shapes.

'Touch it, John,' urged Isabel, taking Mr Thornton's hand and pressing his finger against the cool, smooth surface of the thing she had called a "phone". 'See how it senses your finger touching it, and the image changes? Let me show you some more photographs. As this phone as no partner with which to relay its message, we can only look at pictures or listen to music.' Isabel directed his finger over the cool, silken surface, and a picture of her frowning filled the screen.

'You are in there!' cried he. 'I do not understand this, Izzy.' She sighed with relief; that he should still use for her that intimate, affectionate name.

'You cannot understand it; the world has changed so much.'

'It is madness.'

'I am not mad, John.'

'No, I fear I am! I know you must speak the truth; how else could you have these coloured images; how else could you be inside this little thing I hold in my hand?' And he looked up at her speculatively, as though seeing her clearly for the first time. 'And it is here, in England - some one hundred and sixty years from now - that women are the equal of men, and may study alongside them, and go to university and become doctors and wear trousers?'

'Yes, John.'

'And this is how you knew of the trouble in America? Their war and the cotton famine? Because what is our future is your past?'

'Yes.'

'Will you tell me of this man?' pleaded Mr Thornton; for surely, that was something he could understand. 'I see in these pictures that the clothes you wear are - are improper, and men seem always to have their arms about a woman's waist or shoulders. Are all women unchaste?' asked Mr Thornton, sadly.

'Marriage is not what it is to you. Where I am from, many couples do not marry at all. They live together and have children, and there is no shame in it. I am traditional; I would not wish to have a child outside of marriage, and I have never had an interest in intimacies with a man I was not in love with, but there are many who feel differently, and they are not scorned for it. Indeed, chastity at my age, is something one might feel embarrassed about.'

'Embarrassed?' Mr Thornton sighed deeply, and shook his head in disbelief. 'So there are no morals? A woman is not treated as a lady?'

'You might say that. Another view might be that there is nothing unladylike about feeling desire and wishing to see it satisfied.' He blushed at her forward speech, but then frowned as a wave of possessiveness stole over him.

'Is this what occurred with this man you say you did not love? You simply wished to - to satisfy your desire?' asked he, his eyebrow raised in question; his fists clenched, and jaw set in vexation.

'No!' And here, Isabel turned away from Mr Thornton and picked up her copy of Plato, absent-mindedly turning the page. 'I was twenty-two years old and had never been intimate with a man. That is not the usual way of things in my time, but I had seen and heard things when I was in the children's home, or living with these paid families, and I was wary of men. I met a man called Daniel when I was studying medicine, and we became friends. You might say we were walking out together. I did not wish for intimacy - my feelings for him were not strong enough - and although he did wish for it, he was patient with me. I thought him a good man; a man I might grow to love. Not many men are patient in my time. But he was not quite so patient as I had thought.