“Yes--a terrible night--such, such awful dreams. I think I will try and take a little doze now. No, I don’t want my drops, or anything, only to be quiet,” shrinking from Betty’s clear, sympathetic eyes, “if you will just draw down the blinds, and don’t let anyone disturb me till I ring--Where is Belle?” “She is not up yet; she has toothache, and is feeling rather low. I think it is something in the weather.” “Very likely, my dear--do not let anyone come into the room for the next hour or two, I may get a little sleep; I will rise by and by and ring if I want Eliza; and oh, about the dinner! There is some cold mutton that will make a nice hash, and that, with the fresh herrings, will be ample--you need not mind a pudding,” the ruling passion thrusting itself forward even under the present circumstances. Having dispatched her visitor with a feeling of intense relief, the old lady felt that she had now ensured privacy and leisure in which to contemplate the position, and to balance the future of the two girls--which practically lay in her hands. First of all, she slowly read and re-read George’s letter; next she examined the envelope of his enclosure. Oh, Indian gum, for how much you have to answer! The envelope was scarcely stuck, and came providentially (as she thought) open in her hand! After a moment’s hesitation, she drew out the letter, and devoured it greedily. It began thus abruptly: “I hope and believe that you have understood the reason of my long silence, my dearest; more than a year has elapsed since that miserable July afternoon, when you and I said good-bye to one another, and only good-bye, but it had to be so. _You_ knew better than anyone how poor were my prospects, and that, with my mother to support, I had hardly the means of keeping myself, much less a wife, and to ask a girl to engage herself to a pauper, or to bring her to a life of grinding poverty in this climate, far away from all her friends, is in my opinion a very questionable phase of love. I have been working hard for you, and you alone. I have passed in the language, and am now qualified for various lucrative billets--which, alas! are, so far, birds in the bush. Last mail, to my great surprise, I had a letter from my uncle; he has made me a most generous allowance of five hundred a year--and with this addition to my pay, I (but I hope it will be _we_) could get along very comfortably; and the gist of this is--will you come out and share it? I know you cared for me last year, but that is fifteen months ago. Can you have changed in that time? A long time--half a life-time to me. If you have, I don’t know how I am to bear it. But I trust that your answer will be _yes_. Colonel and Mrs. Calvert, who are leaving London in the _Nankin_ on the 30th September, will take charge of my future wife; they will look after you, as if you were their own sister, and we will be married in Bombay and spend our honeymoon in Cashmere.