der can have
no interest, save in a passing reference to a character already before
him, and of whom she thus wrote:--

"And so your alchemist turns out to be the father of my admirer, Mr.
Alfred Layton. I can sincerely say your part of the family is the more
profitable, for I should find it a very difficult problem to make five
hundred pounds out of mine! Nor can I sufficiently admire the tact
with which you rescued even so much from such a wreck! I esteem your
cleverness the more, since--shall I confess it, dear papa?--I thought
that the man of acids and alkalies would turn out to be the rogue and
you the dupe! Let me hasten, therefore, to make the _amende honorable_,
and compliment you on your new character of chemist.

"In your choice, too, of the mode of disembarrassing yourself of his
company, you showed an admirable wisdom; and you very justly observe,
these are not times when giving a dog a bad name will save the trouble
of hanging him, otherwise an exposure of his treasonable principles
might have sufficed. Far better was the method you selected, while, by
making _him_ out to be mad, you make _yourself_ out to be benevolent.
You have caught, besides, a very popular turn of the public mind at a
lucky conjuncture. There is quite a vogue just now for shutting up
one's mother-in-law, or one's wife, or any other disagreeable domestic
ingredient, on the plea of insanity; and a very clever physician, with
what is called 'an ingenious turn of mind,' will find either madness
or arsenic in any given substance. You will, however, do wisely to come
abroad, for the day will come of a reaction, and 'the lock-up' system
will be converted into the 'let-loose,' and a sort of doomsday arrive
when one will be confronted with very unwelcome acquaintances."

As she had written thus far, a very gentle voice at her door whispered,
"May I come in, dearest?"

"Oh, darling, is it you?" cried Mrs. Morris, throwing a sheet of paper
over her half-written epistle. "I was just writing about you. My sweet
May, I have a dear old godmother down in Devonshire who loves to hear of
those who love _me_; and it is such a pleasure, besides, to write about
those who are happy."

"And you call me one of them, do you?" said the girl, with a deep sigh.

"I call you one who has more of what makes up happiness than any I have
ever known. You are very beautiful,--nay, no blushing, it is a woman
says it; so handsome, May, that it is downright shame of