What a queer letter it was! how tender, sorrowful, triumphant, and pert! Not a hint of regret. Curling and she were married, and there was only one thing wanting to complete her happiness--her papa’s and mamma’s forgiveness. Her dearest papa might be angry with her at first; but when he should grow calm, he would see how much better it was for her to marry the man she loved, and live happily all her life, than be forced into a union with _one_ for whom, though she liked and respected him for some things, she could never have the least affection. (Oh, you deceiver! oh, you little humbug!) Her dear Theodore hadn’t much money; indeed, he had none at all; and would her dear papa (how they _dear_ you, these little women!) mind sending her a cheque, _uncrossed_? She looked forward eagerly to his reply, in which she was quite sure he would tell her that she and dear Theodore were forgiven, and then her happiness would be to return to dear old Updown, and settle down in some little cottage, which Theodore would be able to maintain by his salary at the bank. Her dear papa and mamma might be sure that dear Theodore wanted nothing from them but his rights; that he was willing to work for what he should get; and that he _looked_ to receive nothing with his darling Conny, whom he had married because it would have broken his heart to see her Charlie’s wife, and because he worshipped the ground she trod on. This was the gist of the letter; but I can convey no notion of its mixture of love and sauciness. I returned it to my uncle, without comment, and asked after my aunt. “She has been far from well during the night,” he answered, “slept but little, and cried frequently. But this letter has cheered her up. It has done me good too. Now that I know she is married, I can look about me again, and think over what is to be done. But oh! my boy, what a wretched day was yesterday to your aunt and me!” “Of course,” I replied, “you will write to her to return to Updown.” “I don’t know what I shall do yet,” he said, shaking his head, and striding about the room to conceal the nervous tremors that from time to time shook his frame. “Should not such disobedience be punished? shall no rebuke follow such heartlessness?” “No, no! don’t let us talk of punishing her. She is very young: she has acted, I admit, with great thoughtlessness; but remember, if ever a girl wants sympathy, and demands the love of her father and mother, it is when she is newly married. Let me go to London, and be the bearer of your and her mother’s goodwill and forgiveness, and bring them home.” “Charlie,” he exclaimed, grasping my hand, “I honour you for your kind heart.” I blushed, and looked a protest.