"But you are slightly feverish, child," persisted her ladyship; "and you look as if you had not had enough sleep." Which statement was true enough. Some sensible young ladies there are whose healthy slumbers not even the imprint of Love's first kiss upon their lips has the slightest power to disturb; but not one of such strong-minded maidens was our foolish Eleanor. "I will look up again about eleven," said her ladyship, "and if you are not better by that time I shall make you up a little mixture of my own." Eleanor promised herself that she would be better by that time, as her ladyship's mixtures--she prided herself on being able to physic all her household without calling in the doctor--had the invariable property of being excessively nauseous. She hugged herself with a little shiver of delight when she was left alone again to think her own thoughts. What a surprise it would be to Lady Dudgeon--and, indeed, to everybody! Of course, she would be told that Mr. Pomeroy had only made love to her because she was rich; but in her own heart she knew so much better than that! All at once it struck her that there were one or two notes she ought to write this morning; so she went to her davenport, and took pen and paper. But, somehow, her thoughts would go wool-gathering, and the notes refused to get themselves written. Then she began to scribble on the sheet before her. She wrote her own name several times over, and then, without knowing it, she found that she had written "John Pomeroy." Really, it looked very nice. Then the question put itself to her--"How should I have to address him in case he were to ask me to write to him?" Then she wrote, "Dear Mr. Pomeroy;" but that would be too formal as between engaged people. Then she tried, "My dear John," and "My darling John"--decided improvements both. Then, with the tip of the pen between her lips, and her head a little on one side, she studied the general effect of what she had written. Not satisfied with that, and being quite sure that she was all alone, she tried the effect of speaking the magic words aloud--though, indeed, it was little more than a timid whisper. Every syllable spoken thus was full of hidden music. Then she took up the pen again, and, hardly conscious of what she was doing, she wrote, "My own dear husband." But this was too much. With a little cry, and a sudden blush, she crumpled up the paper, ran across the room, and dropped it into the fire. Next moment she thought she heard the sound of voices. She went to the door, opened it softly, and listened.