forgetful of all worldly
wisdom, would be to be brutal, inhuman, and devilish. "Had he told
Parson John?" she asked.

"Oh, yes!"

"And what does he say?"

"Just nothing. He raised his eyebrows, and suggested 'that I had
changed my ideas of life.' 'So I have,' I said. 'All right!' he
replied. 'I hope that Block and Curling won't have made any mistake
about the L5000.' That was all he said. No doubt he thinks we're two
fools; but then one's folly won't embarrass him."

"Nor will it embarrass Aunt Sarah," said Mary.

"But there is this difference. If we come to grief, Parson John will
eat his dinner without the slightest interference with his appetite
from our misfortunes; but Aunt Sarah would suffer on your account."

"She would, certainly," said Mary.

"But we will not come to grief. At any rate, darling, we cannot
consent to be made wise by the prospect of her possible sorrows on
our behalf."

It was agreed that on that afternoon Mary should write both to Mr.
Gilmore and to Janet Fenwick. She offered to keep her letters, and
show them, when written, to her lover; but he declared that he would
prefer not to see them. "It is enough for me that I triumph," he
said, as he left her. When he had gone, she at once told her aunt
that she would write the letters, and bring that to Mr. Gilmore to be
read by her when they were finished.

"I would postpone it for awhile, if I were you," said Aunt Sarah.

But Mary declared that any such delay would be unfair to Mr. Gilmore.
She did write the letters before dinner, and they were as follows:--

MY DEAR MR. GILMORE,

When last you came down to the Vicarage to see me I
promised you, as you may perhaps remember, that if it
should come to pass that I should engage myself to any
other man, I would at once let you know that it was so. I
little thought then that I should so soon be called upon
to keep my promise. I will not pretend that the writing of
this letter is not very painful to me; but I know that it
is my duty to write it, and to put an end to a suspense
which you have been good enough to feel on my account. You
have, I think, heard the name of my cousin, Captain Walter
Marrable, who returned from India two or three months ago.
I found him staying here with his uncle, the clergyman,
and now I am engaged to be his wife.

Perhaps it would be better that I should say nothing more
than this, and that I should leave my