his leg with the harriers, and yet he had only gone out for a
morning's canter on the best horse he ever had in his life? Didn't I
feel for eight-and-forty hours as if something too delightful was
going to happen to me the week that Brilliant was bought and sent
home, looking like an angel in a horse's skin? That reminds me I never
go to see him now; I hope I am not inconstant to my old friends. And
what was it but a presentiment that made my heart beat and my knees
knock together when I entered my own room to-day before luncheon and
saw a brown paper parcel on the table, addressed, evidently by the
shop people, to "Miss Coventry, Dangerfield Hall"? How my fingers
trembled as I untied the thread and unfolded the paper; after all, it
was nothing but a packet of worsteds! To be sure, I hadn't ordered any
worsteds, but there might possibly be a note to explain; so I shook
every skein carefully, and turned the covering inside out, that the
document, if there should be one, might not escape my vigilance. How
could my presentiments deceive me? Of course there was a note--after
all, where was the harm? Captain Lovell had most politely sent me all
these worsteds for a cushion I had once talked about working, and very
naturally had enclosed a note to say so; and nothing to my mind could
be kinder or more welcome than the contents. I am not going to say
what they are, of course; though for that matter I easily could, since
I have got the note by me at this moment, and have read it over to-day
besides more than once. After all, there is nothing like a letter. Who
does not remember the first letter received in one's childish days,
written in a fair round text for childish eyes, or perhaps even
_printed_ by the kind and painstaking correspondent for the little
dunce of a recipient. Who has not slept with such a letter carefully
hoarded away under the pillow, that morning's first light might give
positive assurance of the actual existence of our treasure. Nor is the
little urchin the only glad supporter of our admirable postal
institutions. Manly eyes moisten with tears of joy over those faint
delicate lines traced by _her_ hand whose gentle influence has found
the _one_ soft place. Woman hides away in her bosom, close to her
loving heart, the precious scrap which assures her, visibly, tangibly,
unerringly, that he is hers and hers alone. Words may deceive, scenes
of bliss pass away like a dream. Though ever present to the mind it
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