I was sitting by her sofa, supposing her asleep. I had been very miserable that morning: tried much in several ways, and I took out your letter to comfort me. It told me of so many miseries, to which my own are nothing, and among which you live continually; yet are always so patient and tender over mine. I said to myself--"how good he is!" and two large tears came with a great splash upon the paper, before I was aware. Very foolish, you know, but I could not help it. And, wiping my eyes, I saw Penelope's wide open, watching me. "Has Doctor Urquhart been writing any thing to wound you?" said she, slowly and bitterly. I eagerly disclaimed this. "Is, he ill?" "Oh, no, thank God!" "Why, then, were you crying?" Why, indeed? But what could I say except the truth, that they were not tears of pain, but because you were so good, and I was so proud of you. I forgot what arrows these words must have been into my sister's heart. No wonder she spoke as she did, spoke out fiercely and yet with a certain solemnity. "Dora Johnston, you will reap what you sow, and I shall not pity you. Make to yourself an idol, and God will strike it down. '_Thou shalt have none other gods but me._' Remember Who says that, and tremble." I should have trembled, Max, had I _not_ remembered. I said to my sister, as gently as I could, "that I made no idols; that I knew all your faults, and you mine, and we loved one another in spite of them, but we did not worship one another--only God. That if it were His will we should part, I believed we could part. And--" here I could not say any more for tears. . Penelope looked sorry. "I remember you preaching that doctrine once, child, but--" she started up violently--"Can't you give me something to amuse me? Read me a bit of that--that nonsense. Of all amusing things in this world, there is nothing like a love-letter. But don't believe them, Dora,"--she grasped my hand hard--"they are every one of them lies." I said that I could not judge, never having received a "love-letter" in all my life, and hoped earnestly I never might. "No love-letters? What does he write to you about, then?" I told her in a general way. I would not see her half-satirical, half-incredulous smile. It did not last very long. Soon, though she turned away and shut her eyes, I felt sure she was both listening and thinking. "Doctor Urquhart cannot have an easy or pleasant life," she observed, "but he does not deserve it. No man does." "Or woman either," said I, as gently as I could. Penelope bade me hold my tongue; preaching was my father's business, not mine, that is, if reasoning were of any avail. I asked, did she think it was not? "I think nothing about nothing. I want to smother thought. Child, can't you talk a little? Or stay, read me some of Dr. Urquhart's letters; they are not love letters, so you can have no objection."