“Now, you know, of course, it is an irreconcilable difference between Elfie’s ‘pap and two unks’ on the one hand, and her lover on the other. But Elfie won’t run away with him, as he wishes her to do. She tells him plainly that he must convert her ‘pap and two unks,’ or be converted by them, before she will endow him with her hand and the reversion of the old gig, the blind mare, niggers, and other personals to which she is heiress; for, though she don’t care a pin for politics herself, she will have peace in the family. “I have here quoted Elfie’s own words. Now, who would have given that little monkey credit for so much wisdom and goodness? “And in the meantime you see Mr. Goldsborough has his hands full between his cool, determined daughter and his self-willed, refractory nephew; both of whom, instead of marrying each other, and keeping the family estates together, to please their friends, have taken the liberty to choose partners for life to please themselves. “But after all, as these marriages are not yet consummated, who knows but that young Mr. Goldsborough may ‘see his own interest,’ as the phrase goes, and persuade Alberta to ‘see her own duty,’ as the other phrase goes, and that they may yet marry and unite the two great branches of the great house of Goldsborough. “But, oh, I am wrong to write so lightly on such sacred subjects. How hard it is, dear Britomarte, to keep from sinning with one’s tongue and pen! I hope that all these lovers will be true to themselves, and to God, who is the Inspirer of all pure love. I hope they will wait patiently until they win their parents’ consent and the reward of forbearance.” There was much more of Erminie’s letter, too much to quote. Sometimes the effervescent spirits of her youth would break forth in some such little jest as the above, and then she would quickly repent and piously rebuke herself for such levity. Her letter closed in one deep, fervent, heartfelt aspiration for Britomarte’s happiness. Britomarte’s tears fell fast over this letter. This man-hater would like to have persuaded herself that she wept over the thought of the lifelong separation from her bosom friend, or over the frailties of Alberta, or over the troubles of Elfie, or over anything or anybody rather than over the memory of Justin Rosenthal. Erminie had written freely of Alberta and Elfrida and their lovers; but she had mentioned her brother only to say that he had been ordained and was going away. And Britomarte could scarcely forgive her friend for such negligence. The name that was written in the letter, “Justin,” she pressed again and again to her lips, while her tears dropped slowly and heavily upon the paper. Suddenly, with a start, she recollected herself, and to punish herself for a moment’s weakness, she deliberately tore up the letter and threw it away.