Nevertheless, there is in her a difference. Not her serious, almost elderly-looking face, nor her manner, which has lost its sharpness, and is so gentle sometimes that when she gives her orders the servants actually stare--but the marvellous composure which is evident in her whole demeanour; the bearing of a person who, having gone through that sharp agony which either kills or cures, is henceforth settled in mind and "circumstances," to feel no more any strong emotion, but go through life placidly and patiently, without much further change, to the end. The sort of woman that nuns are-made of--or-Sours de la Charité; or Protestant lay-sisters, of whom every village has some; and almost every family owns at least one. She will, to all appearance, be our one--our elder sister, to be regarded with reverence unspeakable, and be made as happy as we possibly can. Max, I am learning to think with hope and without pain, of the future of my sister Penelope. One word more, and this long letter ends. Yesterday, papa and I walking on the moor, met Mrs. Cartwright, and learnt full particulars of Lydia. From your direction, her mother found her out, in a sort of fever, brought on by want. Of course, everything had been taken from the Kensington cottage, for Francis's debts. She was turned out with only the clothes she wore. But you know all this already, through Mrs. Ansdell. Mrs. Cartwright is sure it was you who sent Mrs. Ansdell to them, and that the money they received week, by week, in their worst distress, came from you. She said so to papa, while we stood talking. "For it was just like our doctor, sir--as is kind to poor and rich--I'm sure he used to look at you, sir, as if he'd do anything in the world for you--as many's the time I've seed him a-sitting by your bedside when you was ill. If there ever was a man living as did good to every poor soul as came in his way--it be Doctor Urquhart." Papa said nothing. After the old woman had gone, he asked if I had any plans about Lydia Cartwright? I had one, which we must consult about when she is better,--whether she might not, with her good education, be made one of the schoolmistresses that you say, go from cell to cell, instructing the female prisoners in these model gaols. But I hesitated to start this project to papa--so told him I must think the matter over. "You are growing quite a thinking woman, Dora; who taught you, who put it into your mind to act as you do?--you, who were such a thoughtless girl;--speak out, I want to know?" I told him--naming the name of my dear Max; the first time it has ever passed my lips in my father's hearing, since that day. It was received in silence. Some time after, stopping suddenly, papa said to me, "Dora, some day, I know you will go and marry Doctor Urquhart." What could I say? Deny it, deny Max--my love, and my husband? or tell my father what was not true? Either was impossible.