Is it wrong of me to write to you so freely about Francis? I hope not. All mine are yours, and yours mine; you know their faults and virtues as well as I do, and will judge them equally, as we ought to judge those, who, whatever they are, are permanently our own. I have tried hard, this time, to make a real brother of Francis Charteris; and he is, for many things, exceedingly likeable--nay loveable. I see, sometimes, clearly enough, the strange charm which has made Penelope so fond of him all these years. Whether, besides loving him, she can trust him--can look on his face and feel that he would not deceive her for the world--can believe every line he writes, and every word he utters, and know that whatever he does, he will do simply from his sense of right, no meaner motive interfering--oh, Max, I would give much to be certain Penelope had this sort of love for her future husband! Well, they have chosen their lot, and must make the best of one another. Everybody must, you know. Heigho! what a homily I am giving you, instead of this week's history, as usual--from Saturday to Saturday. The first few days there really was nothing to tell. Francis and Penelope took walks together, paid visits, or sat in the parlour talking--not banishing me, however, as they used to do when they were young. On Wednesday, Francis went up to London for the day, and brought back that important article, the wedding-ring. He tried it on at supper-time, with a diamond keeper, which he said would be just the thing for "the governor's lady." "Say wife at once," grumbled I, and complained of the modern fashion of slurring over that word, the dearest and sacredest in the language. "Wife, then," whispered Francis, holding the ring on my sister's finger, and kissing it. Tears started to Penelope's eyes; in her agitation she looked almost like a girl again, I thought; so infinitely happy. But Francis, never happy, muttered bitterly some regret for the past, some wish that they had been married years ago. Why were they not? It was partly his fault, I am sure. The day after this he left, not to return till he comes to take her away finally. In the meanwhile, he will have enough to do, paying his adieux to his grand friends, and his bills to his tradespeople, prior to closing his bachelor establishment for ever and aye--how glad he must be. He seemed glad, as if with a sense of relief that all was settled, and no room left for hesitation. It costs Francis such a world of trouble to make up his own mind--which trouble Penelope will save him for the future. He took leave of her with great tenderness, calling her "his good, faithful girl," and vowing--which one would think was quite unnecessary under the circumstances--to be faithful to her all the days of his life.