find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at
least satisfied herself.

"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our
letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already
agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it
could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through
Sir John's hands."

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a
motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so
direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real
state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she
could not help suggesting it to her mother.

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or
she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind,
so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would
be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all
unreserve, and to you more especially."

"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible
that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry
inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never
deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of
what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know
Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall
not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances
make the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the
confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty
would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's
youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common
care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic
delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before
Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed,
were not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;
but one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of
Shakespeare, exclaimed--

"We have never finished _Hamlet_, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went
away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he
comes again--; But it may be months, perhaps, before _that_ happens."

"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise. "N