He sent off a foreign telegram, and then went upstairs. “Bella, my dear,” said he, “pack up your clothes for a journey. We start to-morrow.” “A journey, papa! A long one?” “No. We shan't double the Horn this time.” “Brighton? Paris?” “Oh, farther than that.” “The grave: that is the journey I should like to take.” “So you shall, some day; but just now it is a _foreign_ port you are bound for. Go and pack.” “I obey.” And she was creeping off, but he called her back and kissed her, and said, “Now I'll tell you where you are going; but you must promise me solemnly not to write one line to Sir Charles.” She promised, but cried as soon as she had promised; whereat the admiral inferred he had done wisely to exact the promise. “Well, my dear,” said he, “we are going to Baden. Your aunt Molineux is there. She is a woman of great delicacy and prudence, and has daughters of her own all well married, thanks to her motherly care. She will bring you to your senses better than I can.” Next evening they left England by the mail; and the day after Richard Bassett learned this through his servant, and went home triumphant, and, indeed, wondering at his success. He ascribed it, however, to the Nemesis which dogs the heels of those who inherit the estate of another. Such was the only moral reflection he made, though the business in general, and particularly his share in it, admitted of several. Miss Somerset also heard of it, and told Mr. Oldfield; he told Sir Charles Bassett. That gentleman sighed deeply, and said nothing. He had lost all hope. The whole matter appeared stagnant for about ten days; and then a delicate hand stirred the dead waters cautiously. Mr. Oldfield, of all people in the world, received a short letter from Bella Bruce. “Konigsberg Hotel, BADEN. “Miss Bruce presents her compliments to Mr. Oldfield, and will feel much obliged if he will send her the name and address of that brave lady who accompanied him to her father's house. “Miss Bruce desires to thank that lady, personally, for her noble defense of one with whom it would be improper for her to communicate; but she can never be indifferent to his welfare, nor hear of his sufferings without deep sorrow.” “Confound it!” said Solomon Oldfield. “What am I to do? I mustn't tell her it is Miss Somerset.” So the wary lawyer had a copy of the letter made, and sent to Miss Somerset for instructions. Miss Somerset sent for Mr. Marsh, who was now more at her beck and call than ever, and told him she had a ticklish letter to write. “I can talk with the best,” said she, “but the moment I sit down and take up a pen something cold runs up my shoulder, and then down my backbone, and I'm palsied; now you are always writing, and can't say 'Bo' to a goose in company. Let us mix ourselves; I'll walk about and speak my mind, and then you put down the cream, and send it.” From this ingenious process resulted the following composition: