“I’m afraid it is a come down for a finisher like you to condescend to my little Babie, but she is really worth teaching, and I would say, make your own terms, but that I am afraid you would not ask enough. Please let it be one hundred and fifty pounds, there’s a good Mary! I think you would come if you knew what a relief it would be. Ever since that terrible August, two years and a half ago, I have felt as if I were drifting in an endless mist, with all the children depending on me, and nobody to take my hand and lead me. You are one of the straws I grasp at. Not very complimentary after all, but when I thought of the strong, warm, guiding hands that are gone, I could not put it otherwise. Do, Mary, come, I do need you so. “Your affectionate “C. O. BROWNLOW.” “May I see it?” asked David. “If you will; but I don’t think it will do you any good. My poor Carey!” “Few women would have written such a letter in all the first flush of wealth.” “No; there’s great sweetness and humility and generosity in it, dear child.” “It changes the face of affairs.” “I’m engaged to you.” “Nonsense! As if that would stand in the way. Besides, she will be at Kenminster till Easter. You are not hesitating, Mary?” “I don’t think I am, and yet I believe I ought to do so.” “You are not imagining that I--” “I was not thinking of you; but I am not certain that it would not be better for our old friendship if I did not accept the part poor Carey proposes to me. I might make myself more disagreeable than could be endured by forty thousand a year.” “You do yourself and her equal injustice.” “I shall settle nothing till I have seen her.” “Then you will be fixed,” he said, in a tone of conviction.