'This is a very miserable bit of a letter, and nothing in it, just because I have so much to say. If I had time I would write it over, but I have not time. The next shall be better. I am a great deal with Mr. Strahan, in-doors as well as out. I wish I could show you his house, Queen. It is old and odd and pretty. Thick old walls, little windows in deep recesses; low ceilings and high ceilings, for different parts of the house are unlike each other; most beautiful dark oaken wainscotings, carved deliciously, and grown black with time; and big, hospitable chimney-pieces, with fires of English soft coal. Some of the rooms are rather dark, to me who am accustomed to the sun of America pouring in at a wealth of big windows; but others are to me quite charming. And this quaint old house is filled with treasures and curiosities. Mr. Strahan lives in it quite alone with two servants, a factotum of a housekeeper and another factotum of a man-servant. I must say I find it intelligible that he should take pleasure in having me with him. Good-bye for to-night. I'll write soon again. 'WM. PITT DALLAS.' As on occasion of the former letter, Esther lingered long over the reading of this; her uneasiness not appeased by it at all; then at last went down to her father, to whom the uneasiness was quite unknown and unsuspected. 'I think William writes the longest letters to you,' he remarked. 'What does he say this time?' Esther read her letter aloud. 'Will has fallen on his feet,' was the comment. 'What does he say to you, papa?' 'Not much; and yet a good deal. You may read for yourself.' Which Esther did, eagerly. Pitt had told her father about his visit to the House of Commons.