cians do when hope is
gone; but still he looked perplexed and thoughtful.

"You will show me the letters, dear, I dare say: but I do not command
you, Emmy; do as you like."

"Certainly, my own kindest guardian--all, all, and instantly."

And flying up to her room, she returned with as much closely-written
manuscript as would have taken any but a lover's eye a full week to
decipher. The general, not much given to literary matters, looked quite
scared at such a prospect.

"Wait, Emmy; not all, not all; show me the last."

I dare say Emily will forgive me if I get it set up legibly in print.
May I, dear?

CHAPTER XXI.

CHARLES AT MADRAS.

Luckily enough for all mankind in general, and our lovers in particular,
Charles's last letter was very unlike some that had preceded it; for
instead of the usual "Oh, my love"'s, "sweet, sweet eyes," "darling"'s,
and all manner of such chicken-hearted nonsense, it was positively
sensible, rational, not to say utilitarian: though I must acknowledge
that here and there it degenerates into the affectionate, or
Stromboli-vein of letter-writing, at opening especially; and really now
and then I shall take leave to indicate omitted inflammations by a *.

"DEAREST, DEAREST EMMY,

* * * * *

[and so forth, a very galaxy of stars to the bottom of this page; enough
to put the compositor out of his terrestrial senses.]

"You see I have recovered my spirits, dearest, and am not now afraid to
tell you how I love you. Oh, that detestable Captain Forbes! let him not
cross my path, gossiping blockhead! on pain of carrying about 'til
deth,' in the middle of his face, a nose two inches longer. I heartily
wish I had never listened for an instant to such vile insinuations; and
when I look at this red right hand of mine, that dared to pen the trash
in that black postscript, I look at it as Cranmer did, and (but that it
is yours, Emmy, not mine), could wish it burnt. But no fears now, my
girl, huzza, huzza! I believe every one about me thinks me daft; and so
I am for very joyfulness; notwithstanding, let me be didactic, or you
will say so too. I really will endeavour to rein in, and go along in the
regular hackney trot, that you may partly comprehend me. Well, then,
here goes; try your paces, Dobbin.

"On the morning of Sunday, April 11th, 1842, the good ship
Elphinston--(that's the way to begin, I suppose, as per ledger,
log-book, and midshipman's epistl