difficulties. Heaven is my witness that if evil wishes could injure, no wicked desire of mine should hasten my uncle’s end by an hour; but he is past sixty, and has aged a good deal lately, so it is not in nature that his life can long stand between us and the avowal of our union.’ This was the last of the lover’s letters; the next Lucius found in the little packet was from the husband, written some years later—written when Félicie had returned to Rouen. This letter was despondent, nay, almost despairing, or rather, expressive of that impatience which men call despair. The writer, who in all these letters signed himself in full, Henry Glenlyne, had failed to get his degree; had been, in his own words, ignominiously plucked; but that was an event of two years ago, to which he referred, retrospectively, as a cause of discontent in his uncle. ‘The fact is, I’ve disappointed him, Félicie, and a very little more would induce him to throw me over altogether, and leave his estate to the Worcestershire Glenlyne Spaldings—my natural enemies, who have courted him assiduously for the last thirty years. The sons are Cambridge men, models of propriety; senior wranglers, prizemen, and heaven knows what else, and of course have done their best to undermine me. Yet I know the dear old man loves me better than the whole lot of them—to be at once vulgar and emphatic—and that unless I did something to outrage his pet prejudice, he would never dream of altering his will, charm they never so wisely. But to declare our marriage at such a time as this would be simple madness, and is not to be thought of. You must keep up your spirits, my dearest girl. If I can bring the little one over to Rouen, I’ll do it; but I have a shrewd notion that my uncle has spies about him, and that my movements are rather closely watched, no doubt in the interests of the Glenlyne Spaldings; your expectant legatees have generally their paid creature in the testator’s household; so it would be difficult for me to bring her myself, and it is just the last favour I could ask of Sivewright, as he profits by the charge of her. It would be like asking him to surrender the goose that lays golden eggs; and remember, whatever the man may be, he has done us good service; for had he not passed himself off as your husband when my uncle swooped down upon us that dreadful day at Sidmouth, the whole secret would have been out, and I beggared for life. I had a peep at the little pet the other day; she is growing fast, and growing prettier every day, and seems happy. Strange to say, she is passionately fond of Ferdinand, who, I suppose, spoils her, and she looked at me with the most entire indifference. I felt the sting of this strangeness. But in the days to come I will win her love back again, or it shall go hard with me.’ Then came a still later letter.