Of course you'll say that you can have nothing to write about to a stranger. But you'll soon find something, _I_ know: I'll trust to your "woman's wit." Ask him about his past life: begin _that_ way. But there! I'll not give you any advice on the subject: you understand writing letters better than I do. So good-bye, "fair coz." Pray accede to my request. Yours, etc., PHILIP A----. BROOKSIDE, July 1, 1872. MY DEAREST BESSIE: I'm getting jealous! Twice within a week have you written to George Hammond, and but once to me. Your letters to him are long, I know, for I see him read them. The correspondence is become something desperate--no wonder. He has just told me that through your letters he has become very deeply attached to you, and that when I return home at the end of another week he will come and plead his cause personally. He asks my benediction. I am sure he has my most hearty good wishes, and I do hope, Bessie dear, you may be inclined to say "Yes." Then, after you are married, you can come out here and settle down near your only remaining relative for the rest of your natural existence. You smile and shake your head, and say, "Oh yes, that will last till Philip marries!" But I say that if I see you and George Hammond united, it is all I ask. But I shall say no more. He can plead better by word of mouth than I by paper, I hope. Ever your devoted PHILIP. TO MISS BESSIE LINTON. A week later, Bessie Linton, fair and young spite of her thirty years, waited at the Applethorpe station in her pony-carriage for her cousin and his friend. She was possessed by so many emotions that she hardly knew whether she most wished or most dreaded seeing the visitors. That she was herself deeply interested in George Hammond she did not pretend to deny even to herself; yet just at the last she dreaded seeing him. It seemed to bring everything so near. The whistle sounded round the bend, and in another moment the dreaded, hoped-for train arrived. There alighted from it a number of passengers, but none that Bessie recognized at all. Presently there came toward her a gentleman with full beard and moustache, holding out his hand and exclaiming, "Cousin Bessie, don't you know me?" "Why, Philip Aubrey! No, I _didn't_. Why, where--" and she hesitated a half second--"where is my Philip gone?" "He's here alive and hearty, and the same old scapegrace, I'm afraid." Then, seeing the look of inquiry and suspense on her face, he added with considerable embarrassment, "George didn't come just yet. I'll tell you all about it when we get home."