r did not at once give him the letter. "First
of all, my dear, let us know that we understand each other. This dear
girl--to me she is inexpressibly dear--is to be your wife."

"Yes, mother, it shall be so."

"That is my own boy! Harry, I have never doubted you--have never doubted
that you would be right at last. Now you shall see her letter. But you
must remember that she has had cause to make her unhappy."

"I will remember."

"Had you not been ill, every thing would of course have been all right
before now." As to the correctness of this assertion the reader probably
will have doubts of his own. Then she handed him the letter, and sat on
his bedside while he read it. At first he was startled, and made almost
indignant at the firmness of the girl's words. She gave him up as though
it were a thing quite decided, and uttered no expression of her own
regret in doing so. There was no soft woman's wail in her words. But
there was in them something which made him unconsciously long to get
back the thing which he had so nearly thrown away from him. They
inspired him with a doubt whether he might yet succeed, which very doubt
greatly increased his desire. As he read the letter for the second time,
Julia became less beautiful in his imagination; and the charm of
Florence's character became stronger.

"Well, dear," said his mother, when she saw that he had finished the
second reading of the epistle.

He hardly knew how to express, even to his mother, all his feelings--the
shame that he felt, and with the shame something of indignation that he
should have been so repulsed. And of his love, too, he was afraid to
speak. He was willing enough to give the required assurance, but after
that he would have preferred to have been left alone. But his mother
could not leave him without some further word of agreement between them
as to the course which they would pursue.

"Will you write to her, mother, or shall I?"

"I shall write, certainly--by to-day's post. I would not leave her an
hour, if I could help it, without an assurance of your unaltered
affection."

"I could go to town to-morrow, mother--could I not?"

"Not to-morrow, Harry. It would be foolish. Say on Monday."

"And you will write to-day?"

"Certainly."

"I will send a line also--just a line."

"And the parcel?"

"I have not opened it yet."

"You know what it contains. Send it back at once, Harry--at once. If I
understand her feelings, she will not be hap