do," I answered; "She says
people will report that her husband is ashamed of her, or that she is
not fit to be seen in society, if she doesn't appear at the parties--and
she is determined not to be misrepresented in that way." Can you
understand my talking to him with so little reserve? It is a specimen,
Cecilia, of the odd manner in which my impulses carry me away, in this
man's company. He is so nice and gentle--and yet so manly. I shall be
curious to see if you can resist him, with your superior firmness and
knowledge of the world.

But the strangest incident of all I have not told you yet--feeling some
hesitation about the best way of describing it, so as to interest you in
what has deeply interested me. I must tell it as plainly as I can, and
leave it to speak for itself.

Who do you think has invited Amelius Goldenheart to luncheon? Not Papa
Farnaby, who only invites him to dinner. Not I, it is needless to say.
Who is it, then? Mamma Farnaby herself. He has actually so interested
her that she has been thinking of him, and dreaming of him, in his
absence!

I heard her last night, poor thing, talking and grinding her teeth in
her sleep; and I went into her room to try if I could quiet her, in
the usual way, by putting my cool hand on her forehead, and pressing it
gently. (The old doctor says it's magnetism, which is ridiculous.) Well,
it didn't succeed this time; she went on muttering, and making that
dreadful sound with her teeth. Occasionally a word was spoken clearly
enough to be intelligible. I could make no connected sense of what I
heard; but I could positively discover this--that she was dreaming of
our guest from America!

I said nothing about it, of course, when I went upstairs with her cup of
tea this morning. What do you think was the first thing she asked
for? Pen, ink, and paper. Her next request was that I would write Mr.
Goldenheart's address on an envelope. "Are you going to write to him?"
I asked. "Yes," she said, "I want to speak to him, while John is out of
the way at business," "Secrets?" I said, turning it off with a laugh.
She answered, speaking gravely and earnestly. "Yes; secrets." The letter
was written, and sent to his hotel, inviting him to lunch with us on
the first day when he was disengaged. He has replied, appointing the day
after tomorrow. By way of trying to penetrate the mystery, I inquired
if she wished me to appear at the luncheon. She considered with herself,
before she ans