“Do as you think best--only do it--and let my sister know. There are two things which you men, the best of you, count for nought; but which are the two things which almost break a woman's heart--one is, when you keep secrets from her; the other when you hesitate and hesitate, and never know your own minds. Pray, Francis, don't do so with Penelope. She is very fond of you.” “I know that. Poor Penelope!” He dropped his head, with something very like a groan. Much shocked, to see that what ought to have been his comfort, seemed to be his worst pain, I forgot all about the letter in my anxiety lest anything should be seriously amiss between them: and my great concern roused him. “Nonsense, child. Nothing is amiss. Very likely I shall be Governor of------------ after all, and your sister governor's lady, if she chooses. Hush!--not a word; Sir William is calling.--Yes, sir, nearly ready. There, Dora, you can swear the letter is begun.” And he hastily wrote the date--Treherne Court. Even then, though, I doubt if he would have finished it, save for the merest accident, which shows what trifles apparently cause important results, especially with characters so impressible and variable as Francis. Sir William, opening his letters, called me to look at one with a name written on the corner. “Is that meant for my nephew? His correspondent writes an atrocious hand, and cannot spell. 'Mr. F. Chatters!'--the commonest tradesman might have had the decency to put 'Francis Charteris, Esquire.' Perhaps it is not for him, but for one of the servants.” It was not: for Francis, looking rather confused, claimed it as from his tailor--and then, under his uncle's keen eyes, turned scarlet. These two must have had some sharp encounters, in former days, since, even now, their power of provoking one another is grievous to see. Heartily vexed for Francis, I took up the ugly letter to give to him, but Sir William interfered. “No thank you, young lady. Tradesmen's bills can always wait. Mr. Francis shall have this letter when he has written his own.” Rude as this behaviour, was, Francis bore with it. I was called out of the library, but half an hour afterwards I learned that the letter was written--a letter of acceptance. So I conclude his hesitation was all talk--or else his better self, sees that a good and loving wife, in any nook of the world, outweighs a host of grand London acquaintance, miscalled “friends.” Dear old Mrs. Granton beamed with delight at the hope of another marriage at Rockmount. “Only,” said she--“what will become of your poor papa, when he has lost all his daughters?” I reminded her that Francis did not intend marrying more than one of us, and the other was likely to be a fixture for many years. “Not so sure of that, my dear; but it is very pretty of you to say so. We'll see--something will be thought of for your good papa when the time comes.”