All this time she is opening a very pretty marqueterie writing-desk, on spiral legs, which Longcluse has been listlessly admiring, little thinking what it contains. She now produced a little note, which, disengaging from its envelope, she places in the hand that Mr. Longcluse extended to receive it. "I do so hope," she said, as she gave it to him, "that I am doing what Lady May would wish. I think she shrank a little from showing it to you herself, but I am certain she wished you to know what is in it." He opened it quickly. It ran thus ("Merry," I must remark, was a pet name, originating, perhaps, in Shakespeare's song that speaks of "the merry month of May"):-- "DEAREST MERRY, "I hope you will come to see me to-morrow. I cannot yet bear the idea of going into town. I feel as if I never should, and I think I grow more and more miserable every day. You are one of the very few friends whom I can see. You can't think what a pleasure a call from you is--if, indeed, in my miserable state, I can call anything a pleasure. I have read your letter about Mr. Longcluse, and parts of it a little puzzle me. I can't say that I have anything to forgive, and I am sure he has acted just as kindly as you say. But our acquaintance has ended, and nothing shall ever induce me to renew it. I can give you fifty reasons, when I see you, for my not choosing to know him. Darling Merry, I have quite made up my mind upon this point. I _don't_ know Mr. Longcluse, and I _won't_ know Mr. Longcluse; and I'll tell you _all_ my reasons, if you wish to hear them, when we meet. Some of them, which seem to me _more_ than sufficient, you do know. The only condition I make is that you don't discuss them with me. I have grown so stupid that _I_ really cannot. I only know that I am right, and that _nothing_ can change me. Come, darling, and see me very soon. You have no idea how very wretched I am. But I do not complain: it has drawn me, I hope, to higher and better thoughts. The world is not what it was to me, and I pray it never may be. Come and see me soon, darling; you cannot think how I long to see you.--Your affectionate, "ALICE ARDEN." "What mountains of molehills!" said Mr. Longcluse, very gently, smiling with a little shrug, as he placed the letter again in Miss Maubray's hand. "Making such a fuss about that poor old man's death! It certainly does look a little like a pretty affectation. Isn't that what you mean? He _was_ so _insupportable_!"