Calvert's was from his Cousin Sophy, much briefer, and very different in
style. It ran thus:

"Dear Henry--"

"I used to be Harry," muttered he.

"Dear Henry,--It was not without surprise I saw your
handwriting again. A letter from you is indeed an event at
Rocksley.

"The Miss Grainger, if her name be Adelaide (for there were
two sisters) was our nursery governess long ago. Cary liked,
I hated her. She left us to take charge of some one's
children--relatives of her own, I suspect--and though she
made some move about coming to see us, and presenting 'her
charge,' as she called it, there was no response to the
suggestion, and it dropped. I never heard more of her.

"As to any hopes of assistance from papa, I can scarcely
speak encouragingly. Indeed, he made no inquiry as to the
contents of your letter, and only remarked afterwards to
Cary that he trusted the correspondence was not to continue.

"Lastly, as to myself, I really am at a loss to see how my
marriage can be a subject of joy or grief, of pleasure or
pain, to you. We are as much separated from each other in
all the relations of life, as we shall soon be by long miles
of distance. Mr. Wentworth Graham is fully aware of the
relations which once subsisted between us,--he has even
read your letters--and it is at his instance I request that
the tone of our former intimacy shall cease from this day,
and that there may not again be any reference to the past
between us. I am sure in this I am merely anticipating what
your own sense of honourable propriety would dictate, and
that I only express a sentiment your own judgment has
already ratified.

"Believe me to be, very sincerely yours,

"Sophia Calvert."

"Oh dear! When we were Sophy and Harry, the world went very differently
from now, when it has come to Henry and Sophia. Not but she is
right--right in everything but one. She ought not to have shown the
letters. There was no need of it, and it was unfair! There is a roguery
in it too, which, if I were Mr. Wentworth Graham, I'd not like. It is
only your most accomplished sharper that ever plays 'cartes sur table.'
I'd sorely suspect the woman who would conciliate the new love by a
treachery to the old one. However, happily, this is his affair, not
mine. Though I could make it mine, too, if I were so dispose