"I hope," said Mrs. Lawrence, "that you made the people understand who you were before you left." Bessie said nothing; but Frederick was struck by the spirit in which she had listened to his misadventures, so different from the one that Miss Marshall had displayed. The one he had always thought a grave and serious character, and the other a light and childish one. But Miss Marshall seemed to find an endless source of amusement in the mortification of other people's vanity, while Bessie was so occupied with the painful position in which he had been placed that she could hardly smile, easily as her smiles generally came, at Frederick's imitation of the pompous and ignorant landlord. "Bessie is a sweet little girl," said he to Emily, at the close of the evening. "I knew you would like her," was Emily's pleased reply. The pleasant weeks the party spent at Lake George served to confirm Frederick's opinion, and the liking that commenced that first evening after his return went on increasing, until in a few years it ended, as most stories and novels do, in a wedding. [Illustration] LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S: BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL, AND HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN. EDITED BY HORACE MAYHEW. THE SIXTH LETTER LEFT. (_Dated April the 9th._) SHOWING WHAT HAPPENED ON A VERY IMPORTANT DAY, AND WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF SOME OF HER MASTERS. TO-DAY, dearest Nelly, is the 14th of February. Not a girl, I believe, in the whole school, slept a wink last night; ever since sunrise, there has been such a humming and buzzing, exactly as you hear at church when the service is just over. I believe all the girls are mad. No one seems to care for fines or forfeits. What is twopence or sixpence, or a hundred lines of the "History of England," so long as a dear sweet valentine is smuggled into the college? and it requires all the art which a woman has of smuggling, to pass a letter through the examination of this place. I declare it's worse than the custom-house, when you land from Boulogne. Every one who comes in has his pockets searched, and the Lady Principal stands on the staircase all day, watching for the postman. She little knows, however, that he has been bribed (_with half a dozen_ SILVER THIMBLES) to slip all the letters under the door without that tell-tale "tat-tat;" or that Susan has earned in one day more ribbons and handkerchiefs than a year's wages would buy her, simply by having a little human feeling. Snapp and the Lady Principal were never fluttered with such hopes, I'll be bound, when they were young, although it is so long ago they may well be excused for forgetting it.