could not
count it real. He seemed actuated by some sudden controlling sympathy
(as he often is) that I could not explain; and had it been otherwise,
your injunction, dear papa, and the fact that he has become a bitter
skeptic in regard to our most holy religion, would have made me pause.
He dropped a hint, too, of the mystery attaching to my family, (not
unkindly, for he is, after all, a dear, good-hearted fellow,) which
kindled not a little indignation in me; and I told him--with some of the
pride, I think, I must have inherited from you, papa--that, until that
mystery was cleared, I would marry neither him nor another. Was I not
right?

"I want so much to be with you again, dear papa,--to tell you all I hope
and fear,--to feel your kiss again! Miss Johns, whom I have tried hard
to love, but cannot, is changed wofully in her manner toward me. I feel
it is only my home now by sufferance,--not such a home as you would
choose for me, I am sure. The Doctor--good soul--is as kind as he knows
how to be, but I want--oh, how I want!--to leap into your arms, dear
papa, and find home there. Why can I not? I am sure--over and over
sure--that I could bring some sunlight into a home of yours, if you
would but let me. And when you come, as you say you mean to do soon, do
not put me off with such stories as you once told me, of 'a lean
Savoyard in red wig and spectacles, and of a fat Frenchman with bristly
moustache' (you see I remember all); tell me I may come to be the
mistress of your parlor and your _salon_, and I will keep all in such
order, that, I am sure, you will not want me to leave you again; and you
will love me so much that I shall never want to leave you.

"Indeed, indeed, it is very wearisome to me here. The village people
seem all of them to have caught the coolness of Miss Johns, and look
askance at me. Only the Elderkins show their old kindness, and it is
unfailing. Do not, I pray, disturb yourself about any 'lost fortune' of
which you wrote to the Doctor, but never--cruel papa!--a word to me. I
am rich: I can't tell you how many dollars are in the Savings Bank for
me,--and for you, if you wish them, I have so little occasion to spend
anything. But I have committed the extravagance of placing a beautiful
tablet over the grave of poor Madame Arles, and, much to the horror of
the good Doctor, insisted upon having a little cross inscribed upon its
front. You have never told me, dear papa, if you received the long
a