"Well, my dear," she said, "Eliza says you feel rather tired this morning, and I am sorry for that. Is there anything you would like? A glass of port wine before lunch?" "Oh! no, Miss Webster," answered May with a smile and a pretty blush. "There is really nothing the matter with me--only I had a letter to write--to Mr. Temple." "To Mr. Temple?" repeated Miss Webster, looking at the fair face of her young guest. "Yes, he asked me to write," went on May, nervously; "and--and--Miss Webster, he--" "Well, my dear, what is it?" asked Miss Webster, gently, as May paused and hesitated. "He said if you would be so kind as to inclose my letters to him he would like that best," said May, taking courage. "You see he is staying with his uncle, and I believe his uncle's wife is rather an odd woman--so he thinks it best that she should not know that we write to each other at present." Miss Webster did not speak for a moment or two after May had made this somewhat confused explanation. But she was thinking very seriously. So this young girl's visit to London was evidently a secret, she was reflecting--a secret from Mr. John Temple's relations; probably from May Churchill's own. The knowledge of this made Miss Webster somewhat nervous. She had the greatest belief and trust in Mr. John Temple--had they not known him for years?--and she was quite sure he would not do what was wrong to anyone. Still, May was a young girl--and once more Miss Webster's gentle eyes rested on the young girl's face. "Please do this for me, Miss Webster," pleaded May, in her pretty way, laying her little white hand on Miss Webster's thin, bluish-tinted one. "It must seem funny to you, I know, but it won't some day--some day," she added, a little proudly, raising her head, "you will know that neither John nor I are doing any wrong." "I am sure you are not," answered Miss Webster, taking the little fluttering hand in hers. "I have a great regard for Mr. John Temple, and so has sister Eliza. Yes, my dear, I will inclose your letter. You will find some large envelopes lying on the writing-table there." So the large envelope was duly directed to John Temple, Esq., in the rather old-fashioned, shaky handwriting of Miss Margaret Webster, and was carried to the nearest post office by May herself, and sped on its way, until the next morning it was lying on the breakfast table at Woodlea Hall, near the seat that John usually occupied while he was staying there. The squire always opened the letter-bag, and passed on the letters to their different owners, but it chanced this morning that John Temple was not yet down when his big letter arrived, neither was Mrs. Temple. Presently, however, Mrs. Temple appeared, and looked first at her own letters, and then at John's large one. "What old woman, I wonder, is writing to John Temple?" she said, holding up the letter to attract her husband's attention. "Perhaps it contains one from a young one." And she laughed.