What could it mean? A lady's handwriting, to which he was an utter stranger. No name, no date, no monogram. "Come to-morrow," thought Goldthred. "Certainly! But where? And when _is_ to-morrow? It's ten minutes past three now. Oh! this can't be intended for _me_!" Then he turned it upside down, backwards and forwards, inside out. The envelope was addressed correctly enough, christian and surname in full, with even a flourish of calligraphy adorning his humble title of "Esquire." Many members of the "Cauliflower" would have pocketed the effusion without emotion, as a mere every-day conquest of some anonymous admirer, but such a suspicion never entered Goldthred's honest head. In his utter freedom from self-conceit, this note puzzled him exceedingly; but to have believed it due to his own powers of fascination, would, in his loyalty to Mrs. Lascelles, have annoyed him still more. The same letter-rack, low down, under "V," produced another epistle in a similar handwriting, which Frank snatched with eagerness from its place and pressed hungrily to his lips, as he rushed back into the street, feeling a strange suffocating necessity on him to read it in the open air. Earning an epicurean prolongation of pleasure, which most of us indulge in, by deferring its actual commencement, he walked some few paces on his homeward way ere he tore open the envelope, with a blessing on his lips for the girl he loved, and something like tears of gratitude, affection, and happiness starting to his eyes. These started back again, however, and clustered like icicles round his heart, while he read the following terse and explicit communication: "DEAR SIR,--I regret that a previous engagement will prevent my availing myself of your polite offer. I shall, of course, inform my father of your proposal when he returns. "And remain, "Yours sincerely, "HELEN HALLATON." Frank clenched his fists and shut his teeth tight, for it _hurt_ him. Hurt him very severely, though he scorned to wince or cry out, only smiling in anything but mirth, while he said aloud to the gas-lamps: "I didn't think she was such a bad one! Miss Ross is worth a dozen of her. O Helen, how _could_ you!" Perhaps in all his life he never loved her better than now, while he swore nothing should induce him to see nor speak to her again. CHAPTER XVII. DISTRACTIONS.