“Yes, doctor, it is I,” said the man, handing a letter to the minister. “You see, it came by the late mail, and, being a foreign letter, I thought it might be from your son who went out to the Indies, and so I thought I wouldn’t keep you waiting for it until the regular delivery to-morrow morning, but I would just step around with it to-night.” “A thousand thanks, my friend. It is from my son! It is in his handwriting. A thousand thanks! this is a real act of kindness, which I shall never cease to remember,” said the minister, earnestly, as he received the letter. “Oh, don’t mention such a trifle, doctor. Good-night, sir,” said the kind-hearted penny postman, taking himself off. “Erminie, my dear, here is a letter from your brother!” exclaimed the minister, bursting into the library with all the vehemence of a schoolboy. “Oh!” cried his daughter, jumping to meet him. And for the time being Colonel Eastworth was “left out in the cold.” “Ah! pray excuse us, sir! Have we your permission?” inquired the minister, suddenly recollecting himself and bowing to his guest. “Oh, certainly, certainly! Am I not one of yourselves? Pray do not mind me,” replied Colonel Eastworth, smiling, and then turning his whole attention to Gustave Doré, which lay still before him. Dr. Rosenthal opened the letter; and then the father and daughter held it between them, bent their heads over it and read it together. It was the first letter they had received from Justin—a letter that he had written and mailed at Porto Praya. It merely told them of the ship’s prosperous voyage and safe arrival at Porto Praya, and of the well-being of all the passengers. “I hope you have had good news from my friend Justin and his party,” said Colonel Eastworth, as they joined him at the table. “Excellent! They have had a very prosperous voyage as far as Porto Praya, with every prospect of a continuance of fine weather, thank Heaven! There, you can see what he says, if you will take the trouble to look over his letter,” said the minister, putting the paper into the visitor’s hands. “Thanks,” said Colonel Eastworth, with a bow. Then he drew Erminie to his side, so that she could look over the letter again with him, and opened it, saying, with a smile: “I know, of course, that you cannot read this too often.” “I believe you read my thoughts,” answered Erminie, with a beautiful flush. “And—I do wish I could read yours as well,” she added, gravely. “I wish you could, my dearest. You would know then, for yourself, how perfectly I love you,” he replied, in a low whisper. “I know that already. I never for a moment doubted your love. What, indeed, but perfect love could draw you down to me?” murmured Erminie, in a voice tremulous with emotion. “God bless you in your faith, my dearest! But why, then, do you wish to read my thoughts?” inquired Colonel Eastworth, with a sidelong glance toward the minister, to see if he was attending to their conversation.