"Your _sisters_ and I have spoken to _dear papa_ about the _life you lead_. He has _bidden_ me write to you just what _I think_, and your sisters also say it is my _duty_ to do so. I write you, _therefore_--how sadly you know--to say that, as a _Christian woman_, you _ought not to continue_ in this life. You _should_ rise above it, and assert the _freedom_ of a child of God. _What is a dinner_ at Parker's if eaten with a _guilty conscience_? Better is a dinner of herbs where love is. "_I am sorry_ to write you a _letter_ which seems severe. But _you know_, my dear child, that I am as _a mother_ to you. And _surely_ the counsels of a mother will be _sweeter_ to you than the _flatteries_ of any not so near as she. "Always your loving sister, "PRISCILLA." "Counsels of a fiddlestick!" said Psyche; and she wrote this answer:-- "What in the world is the matter? I saw no dislike of Parker's dinners when you were here. I believe you are crazy. "Always yours, "PSYCHE." And she threw Priscilla's letter into the kitchen-fire. This was her mistake. She would have been wiser had she shown it to Edward, as she did the other. But she was ashamed to. Another week brought her another letter. "_Private and Particular_. "PAINTED POST, June 13. "MY DEAR CHILD,--I am _shocked_ with the _levity_ of your note, _without date_, which lies before me. "Dear Psyche, fools make a _mock_ of sin. How can you exult in your own _shame_? How can you live as the wife of a _man_ of whom you know _nothing_, whose whole life is _suspicious_ and a _scandal_, who is himself so _ashamed_ of it that he does not admit _his own wife_ to a knowledge of its _secret ways_? I cannot see how a child of _Christian parents_ should be _so blinded_ and _misled_. "_Rouse yourself_ in your strength, dear child. Ask your husband _honestly_ and _bravely_ what it is that he does in his _nightly orgies_. Do not think that we observed nothing in our _visit_. Do not think that we were _lulled_ or put to _sleep_ in our watch over our _sister_. _Never_, dear Psyche. We love you as much as ever. And we are _determined_ to tear every shred of _mystery_ from your life, once so _artless_ and _pure_. "Truly, your sister-mother, "PRISCILLA." "Sister-mother indeed!" said Psyche; and she wrote this letter:-- "DEAR PRIS,--If you will mind your business, I will mind mine. P." And she threw Priscilla's letter into the sea at high tide, torn into little bits. This was her second mistake. This time this answer came:-- "PAINTED POST, June 21. "MY DEAR LOST LAMB,--I have _spent_ the _night_ in _prayer_ for you. This morning Agnes and Polly and I showed your _profligate letter_ to our dear father. He has charged me to _write_ what I _think_ best to you.