conflagration, instead of merely taking a pleasant
little occasional scorch. After all, you and I
are very much alike (but for the priceless gift.
of enjoying which you inherit from my poor aunt,
and of which, as you truly remark. I have little
or none). We both lead placid contented
lives enough, and both rejoice in the possession
of undisturbed hearts. Why, then, do you
always quarrel with me for a condition of
existence which you so completely share? Or,
can I be mistaken— and do you share it less
than I imagine? Do tell me, were you ever in
love, Harty? But "utterly and miserably in
love," as you say? Don't be angry with me if
I don't give dear old William credit for having
stirred the depths to that amount; and don't
be angrier still, if I ask if any one else ever did?
No, it isn't possible; you never would go hunting
after great emotions, with that good unclouded
child's face of yours, as you do, if you
knew what the words meant. In the mean
time, I am afraid neither Laura nor Amy will
do; neither of them seems to be the little
darling I require. I think I fancy rather less
figure— and I do mind the leg.

Yours affectionately,

E. S.

Herne Court, 16th February.

Your questions have not made me angry;
they have only sent me into fits of laughter.
You are perfectly right, dear Edward. I have
not the remotest comprehension of the passions
I read and hear of, and I own to an almost
morbid degree of curiosity with regard to states
of feeling of which I have not the smallest
conception in my own experience.

You know what a secluded life we always led
in the country. An unbroken sunshiny stillness
of home affections and duties during all
our happy childhood. We lost poor papa when
we were too young to understand the terrible
meaning of death: and since that, the only
shadow that ever came to darken the clear days,
was Minnie's marriage. We had been dear
companions in all our occupations and pleasures;
we had never been away from one another in
our lives before, and the separation fell very
heavily upon my heart. Shortly after Minnie
and George had gone abroad, when the sad
blank of her absence was making itself doubly
felt, now that the excitement of the wedding
was over, just when I was at my very worst, in
short, Mr. Brande came down into the
neighbourhood to look at an estate which he had
some thoughts of purchasing. He had been an
old friend of papa's, and mamma asked him to
come and stay with us while he made his in-
quiries about Beech Hill; the place did not
please him, but there were others, more or less
near, to be seen in the neighbourhood, and so
he stayed on and on, and at the end of two
months he had found both a home and a wife to
suit him: he bought Herne Court, and asked
me to be the mistress of it. Mamma was overjoyed
at the prospect of giving me into such
safe keeping, and having me settled tolerably
near her; and William was so dear and good,
so excellently kind to me when I was fretting
about losing Minnie, and so perfect for mamma,
that I was very sure I should never meet any
one I could esteem and love as thoroughly
again, and so we were married. There are as
many as twenty-two years between us, but
though he seemed to me quite an old grandfather
when I married him, I believe I have got
to think him younger by living with him. I
know no young man, unselfish, tender, and
guileless as he is. And although he did not
"stir my depths" very violently (if I have any
to stir, which I think doubtful), he has filled my
heart entirely for the twenty years that we have
been married, during which time he has
honoured me like a loyal subject, served me like
a devoted friend, and petted and spoiled me as
I thought it was only in one's mother to do.

And now for the second question, which I
dare say you thought was sufficiently answered
by what I have just said; and so it is— and yet
it isn't quite, either— that is, I have just, a wee
corner of conscience about it that makes me
speak, at the risk of your giving much more
important proportions to my small confidence than
it ever deserved.

About five years after we were married, we
passed a season in town, and became acquainted
with a person whom William took an extraordinary
fancy to. He shot like William Tell,
he hunted like Nimrod, he drew like an artist,
and the worst of it was that he sung like an
angel, and that dear good William, who doesn't
know God save the Queen from Yankee Doodle,
and had never cared about my singing in the
least, must needs bethink him suddenly how
good it would be for me to keep up my music,
and was quite delighted to see my little talents
appreciated by capable people, and so was I, I
confess it to my shame. He continually asked
this man to come down and stay with us, and
he didn't see that by degrees he was beginning
to pay me more attention than he ought, and
that I might end with getting more dependent
upon his companionship in those pursuits in
which William did not sympathise with me, than
was desirable. Well, this state of things went
on, and we sketched together, and we sang
together, and we read German together, till at
last, my life became agitated with an atmosphere
to which it had been an utter stranger until then.
I don't mean to say that I cared for the man in
the least; but he troubled me— don't give the
word more than its exactest meaning— he just
troubled me. He never had said anything to
startle me, or that I could actually lay hold of
to take offence at; but I was made to feel that
I was adored all day long; respectfully, but still
adored, and though it was certainly sometimes
a little distressing, I found it a little pleasant
too. At last things came to a crisis; one of
his long summer visits had just drawn to a close,
and he bade us good-by, more than usually out
of spirits at leaving us. He was to go abroad
early in the autumn, and not to return before
the following spring. I watched the carriage as