I suppose in these days people can scarce realise what an event in our lives was the receipt of a letter in the days of which I write. Our letters from Mossley must come by _The Fair Trader_, the coach being met by old Matty, the Slaithwaite postmistress, who had to trudge painfully up the long, steep, rough road to Pole Moor. Be sure I did not fail on the Saturday after Miriam's departure to hie me to my father's house, and be sure, too, that Jim needed no pressing to accompany me. I fear me poor Mary in those days did not have much joy of her only son's companionship. Ah, me! youth and love are sadly selfish. How readily do we, if not forget, seem to a parent's eyes to forget or lightly consider the long years of care and anxious love and sacrifice that have smoothed and sheltered our tender years, when first we came under the glamour of love's young dream. Arrived at Pole Moor, we found Ruth in a high state of excitement. Miriam had been true to her word, and old Molly had brought her missive duly. I have it now before me as I write, the paper thin and frayed, the ink faint and faded: Bent Hall, Micklethwaite, Mossley, March 28, 1832. My DEAR FRIEND AND SISTER, I write these few lines to tell you I am safely arrived at this great mansion, and that, if this world's gear were all that is needed to make glad a maiden's heart, I ought to be the happiest of girls. Yet, truth to tell, I am longing day and night to be back at Pole Moor, and count the hours till I shall be there once more, never to leave it again till--you know when.