SYDNEY, _10th April 18—_. DEAR ERNEST—We have heard a report down here—brought to our table, in fact, by Hardy Baldacre, a man you know a little—that you are engaged and about to be married shortly to a young lady, a cousin of your own, just arrived from England. Also that Miss Neuchamp left Sydney for Rainbar, after a week’s stay, and was seen by him on the way there in a coach. For reasons which can be hereafter explained, I wish you to send me a specific admission or denial of this statement. I will write you again upon receipt of your reply to this letter. I am, always yours sincerely, PAUL FRANKSTON. E. NEUCHAMP, Esq. On the following evening, after sending this, the most laconic epistle which had ever passed between them, Paul no sooner beheld his daughter’s face than he saw shining in her eyes the light of recovered trust, of renewed hope, of restored belief in happiness. ‘She must have received a letter,’ mused the sagacious parent. ‘Where is it, my darling?’ said he aloud. ‘Where is what?’ she replied, with a sweet air of embarrassment, pride, and mystery commingled. ‘Of course you have had a letter, or heard some news. I took the chance of the little bird’s whisper coming by post. I think I am right.’ ‘Here it is, you wicked magician. Antonia will never have another secret from her dear old father. What agonies I suffered for my hard-heartedness! And oh, what have I escaped!’ Here was the letter, with a mere stamp thereon, which contained such a fortune in happiness as should have entitled the Government to a round sum on the principle of legacy duty: RAINBAR, _4th April 18—_. MY DEAR ANTONIA—This letter will probably reach Sydney some days, or weeks even, before a young lady, for whom I entreat your friendship and kind offices. [H—m.] When I say that she is Augusta Neuchamp, my cousin, and my only relation in Australia, I feel certain that I need not further recommend her to you and the best of fathers and friends. [H—m.] You will acknowledge her to be a refined and intelligent woman, that goes _sans phrase_, I should hope, and no truer heart, with more thoroughly conscientious acceptance of duty, ever dwelt in one of her sex. [H—m.] But, writing to you with the confidence of old and tender friendship, I may as well state, delicately but decidedly, that Augusta and I have been utterly unsympathetic from our childhood, and must so remain to the end of the chapter. [Oh dear! surely I can’t have read aright.] Even at Rainbar, to which rude retreat she posted with her usual impetuosity, without giving me the opportunity of forbidding her, we had our old difficulty about preserving the peace (conversationally), and once or twice I thought we should have come to blows, as in our childish days. [Thank Heaven! Oh, oh!]