Lesley was emboldened by the gentle intonation to draw closer to him, and to lay an entreating hand upon his arm. "Oh, father," she said, "if you would but let me write to mamma!" And then she uttered a little sob, and the tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. As for Caspar Brooke, he stood like a man amazed, and repeated her words almost stupidly. "_Write to mamma?_" he said. "It would do me good: it would not do any harm," said Lesley, hurriedly, brokenly, and clasping his arm with both hands to enforce her plea. "I would not tell her anything that you did not like: I should never say anything but good about you; but, oh, there are so many things that puzzle me, and that I should like to consult her about. You see, although I was not much with her, I used to write to her twice a week, and she wrote to me oftener, sometimes; and I told her everything, and she used to advise me and help me! And I miss it so much--it is that that makes me unhappy; it seems so hard never to write and never to hear from her! I feel sometimes as if I could not bear it; as if I should have to run away to her again and tell her everything! Nobody is like her--nobody--and to be a year without her is terrible!" And Lesley put her head down on her father's arm and cried unrestrainedly, with a sort of newborn instinct that he sympathised with her, and would not repulse her confidence. As for Caspar Brooke, his face had turned quite pale: he stood like a statue, with features rigidly set, listening to Lesley's outburst of pleading words. It took him a little time to find his voice, even when he had at last assimilated the ideas contained in her speech and regained his self-possession. It took him still longer to recover from a certain shock of surprise. "Write to your mother!" he exclaimed. "Well, but, of course--why should you not write to your mother?" And then Lesley raised her head and looked at him with such amazement and perplexity that her father felt absolutely annoyed. "Who on earth put it into your head that you might not write? Am I such a tyrant--such an unfeeling monster----? Good heavens! what extraordinary idea is this! Who said that you were not to write to her?" "My mother herself," said Lesley, drawing herself a little away from him, and still looking into his face. "Your _mother_? Absurd! Why, what--what----" He faltered, frowned, turned away to the mantelpiece, and struck his hand heavily upon it. "I never meant _that_," he said. It seemed as if vexation and astonishment prevented him from saying more. "My mother said that it was agreed--years ago--that when I came to you, we were to have no communication," said Lesley, trembling, and yet resolute to have her say. "Was not that so?"