So, first, in obedience to orders, I am quite well, even though my hand-writing is "not so pretty as it used to be." Do not fancy the hand shakes, or is nervous or uncertain. Not a bit of it. I am never nervous, nor weak either--now. Sometimes, perhaps, being only a woman after all, I feel things a little more keenly than I ought to feel; and then, not being good at concealment, at least not with you, this fact peeps out in my letters. For the home-life has its cares, and I feel very weary sometimes--and then, I have not you to rest upon--visibly, that is--though in my heart I do always. But I am quite well, Max, and quite content. Do not doubt it. He who has led us through this furnace of affliction, will lead us safely to the end. You will be glad to hear that papa is every day less and less cold to me--poor papa! Last Sunday, he even walked home from church with me, talking about general subjects, like his old self, almost. Penelope has been always good and kind. You ask if they ever name you? No. Life at Rockmount moves slowly, even in the midst of marriage preparations. Penelope is getting a large store of wedding presents. Mrs. Granton brought a beautiful one last night from her son Colin. I was glad you had that long friendly letter from Colin Granton--glad also that, his mother having let out the secret about you and me, he was generous enough to tell you himself that other secret, which I never told. Well, your guess was right; it was so. But I could not help it; I did not know it.--For me--how could any girl, feeling as I then did towards you, feel anything towards any other man but the merest kindliness?--That is all: we will never say another word about it; except that I wish you always to be specially kind to Colin, and to do him good whenever you can--he was very good to me. Life at Rockmount, as I said, is dull. I rise sometimes, go through the day, and go to bed at night, wondering what I have been doing during all these hours. And I do not always sleep soundly, though so tired. Perhaps it is partly the idea of Penelope's going away so soon; far away, across the sea, with no one to love her and take care of her, save Francis. Understand, this is not with any pitying of my sister for what is a natural and even a happy lot, which no woman need complain of; but simply because Francis is Francis--accustomed to think only of himself, and for himself. It may be different when he is married. He was staying with us here a week; during which I noticed him more closely than in his former fly-away visits. When one lives in the house with a person--a dull house too, like ours, how wonderfully odds and ends of character "crop out," as the geologists say. Do you remember the weeks when you were almost continually in our house? Francis had what we used then to call 'the Doctor's room.' He was pleasant and agreeable enough, when it pleased him to be-so; but, for all that, I used to say to myself, twenty times a-day, "My dear Max!"