No; and therefore I feel certain my sister is right. Ay, even putting aside the other fact, that the discovery of his long years of deception must have so withered up her love,--scorched it at the root, as with a stroke of lightning--that even if she pitied him, she must also despise. Fancy, despising one's _husband!_ Besides, she is not the only one wronged. Sometimes, even sitting by my sister's bedside, I see the vision of that pretty young creature--she was so pretty and innocent when she first came to live at Rockmount,--with her boy in her arms; and my heart feels like to burst with indignation and shame, and a kind of shuddering horror at the wickedness of the world--yet with a strange feeling of unutterable pity lying at the depth of all. Max, tell me what you think--you who are so much the wiser of us two; but I think that even if she wished it still, my sister _ought not_ to marry Francis Charteris. Ah me! papa said truly I was no longer a child. I feel hardly even a girl, but quite an old woman--familiar with all sorts of sad and wicked things, as if the freshness and innocence had gone out of life, and were nowhere to be found. Except when I turn to-you, and lean my poor sick heart against you--as I do now. Max, comfort me! You will, I know, write immediately you receive this. If you could have come---but that is impossible. Augustus you will probably see, if you have not done so already--for he already looks upon you as the friend of the family, though in no other light as yet; which is best. Papa wrote to Sir William, I believe; he said he considered some explanation a duty, on his daughter's account; further than this, he wishes the matter kept quiet. Not to disgrace Francis, I thought; but papa told me one-half the world would hardly consider it any disgrace at all. Can this be so? Is it indeed such a wicked, wicked world? --Here my letter was stopped by hearing a sort of cry in Penelope's room. I ran in, and found her sitting up in her bed, her eyes starting, and every limb convulsed. Seeing me, she cried out:-- "Bring a light;--I was dreaming. But it's not true. Where is Francis?" I made no reply, and she slowly sank down in her bed again. Recollection had come. "I should not have gone to sleep. Why did you let me? Or why cannot you put me to sleep for ever and ever, and ever and ever," repeating the word many times. "Dora!" and my sister fixed her piteous eyes on my face, "I should be so glad to die. Why won't you kill me?" I burst into tears. Max, you will understand the total helplessness one feels in the presence of an irremediable grief like this: how consolation seems cruel, and reasoning vain. "Miserable comforters are ye all," said Job to his three friends; and a miserable comforter I felt to this my sister, whom it had pleased the Almighty to smite so sore, until I remembered that He who smites can heal.