Yesterday I had a holiday. I took the railway to Treherne Court, wishing to learn something of Rockmount. You said it was your desire I should visit your brother-in-law and sister sometimes. They seemed very happy--so much as to be quite independent of visitors, but they received me warmly, and I gained tidings of you. They escorted me back as far as the park-gates, where I left them standing, talking and laughing together, a very picture of youth and fortune, and handsome looks; a picture suited to the place, with its grand ancestral trees branched down to the ground; its green slopes, and its herds of deer racing about--while the turrets of the magnificent house which they call "home," shone whitely in the distance. You see I am taking a leaf out of your book, growing poetical and descriptive; but this brief contrast to my daily life made the impression particularly strong. You need have no anxiety for your youngest sister; she looked in excellent health and spirits. The late sad events do not seem to have affected her. She merely observed, "She was glad it was over, she never liked Francis much. Penelope must come to Treherne Court for change, and no doubt she would soon make a far better marriage." Her husband said, "He and his father had been both grieved and annoyed--indeed, Sir. William had quite disowned his nephew--such ungentlemanly conduct was a disgrace to the family." And then Treherne spoke about his own happiness--how his father and Lady Augusta perfectly adored his wife, and how the hope and pride of the family were-entered in her, with more to the same purport. Truly this young couple have their cup brimming over with life and its joys. My love, good-bye; which means only "God be with thee!" nor in any way implies "farewell."--Write soon. Your words are, as the Good Book expresses it, "sweeter than honey and the honey-comb," to me unworthy. Max Urquhart. I should add, though you would almost take it for granted, that in all you do concerning Mrs. Cartwright or her daughter, I wish you to do nothing without your father's knowledge and consent. CHAPTER VII. HER STORY. |Another bright, dazzlingly-bright summer morning, on which I begin writing to my dear Max. This seems the longest-lasting, loveliest summer I ever knew, outside the house. Within, all goes on much in the same way, which you know. My moors are growing all purple, Max; I never remember the heather so rich and abundant; I wish you could see it! Sometimes I want you so! If you had given me up, or were to do so now, from hopelessness, pride, or any other reason, what would become of me! Max, hold me fast. Do not let me go.