“Belle, my dearest, you must not say that.” “Why not, when it is true?” enquired Belle with a fierceness engendered of temper and toothache. “Mother,” she continued, now walking to the foot of the bed, and clutching the rail in her hands, and speaking through her set teeth, “_can’t_ you see that this life is killing me by inches? It’s all very well for Betty, who has never known any other; she likes the country, and dogs, and horses, and long walks--she even likes the common people and the rain! She has never had an admirer. She is not like me--you know what I have been accustomed to, what my life was, and what _this_ is. If I only had the courage, I would drown myself in the canal--I swear I would.” “Belle!” expostulated her mother. “Could you not give up Noone, and let it, in spite of that brute, old Brian, and go away and take lodgings for the winter at Brighton or Southsea; at least, we should see something out of our windows, instead of this eternal grass and fir-trees? We could live on very little; we might get a hamper from here every week. Betty could stay with old Sally.” Mrs. Redmond shook her head sadly; she knew that she was very ill, that it was more than doubtful if she would ever pass the gates of Noone again--save in her coffin. “If we don’t get away from this hateful hole,” continued Belle, looking fixedly at her mother, with a white face and gleaming eyes, “I shall do something desperate--I know I shall, and I warn you that I shall.” So saying she snatched the _Irish Times_ off the bed, and swept out of the room. Mrs. Redmond sank back feebly among her pillows, and a good many unusual tears trickled down her poor, faded cheeks. What more could she do for Belle? Had she not always done her best for her imprudent, impetuous child? All through that weary, wet day, she was unusually silent and depressed, and heaved many a long sigh at short intervals. The very next morning, in sorting out the contents of the post bag, she discovered a letter from India, addressed to herself, in Mr. Holroyd’s writing. It was not for Belle! No, there was “Mrs. Redmond” as plain as pen could write it; her dull eyes brightened, and her face flushed as she tore it open. Here was a proposal for Belle _at last_! But--but--what was this? An enclosure directed to Miss Elizabeth Redmond. The old lady’s hands shook as she scanned it, and her jaw dropped, and the “rigor mortis” seemed already visible in the outlines of her once jovial countenance. She thrust it hastily under the counterpane, as if it stung her, and slowly unfolded her own letter, which ran as follows:--