"Dear Mr. Loftus,—Thank you for the scent-paper, it's very delicious, but not so nice as that almond-rock you sent me. I've no more time, for fear Emma should come up. Ever yours, Rose B. P.S.I saw you all riding that donkey on the common, why didn't you look up? I was with Jessie Gall and their governess." This accomplished, she went on to the next, taking them in rotation. "Dear Mr. Brown,—The barley-sugar's first-rate; I've eaten it nearly all. It's a love of a bonnet. I wanted Emma to let me have a blue mantle like it, and she went and bought a black! Ever yours, Rose B. P.S.—Please excuse the smuge; an old raisen out of my drawer got crushed on it." And the next was to Jones minor. "Dear Mr. Jones,—I'm very sorry about the brooch; perhaps you could get me something else. Don't you ever speak to Stiggins—I shouldn't. The raisens are gritty; perhaps you droped them. Do pay out that Mother Butter. She told Emma the other day I was a little minx. Couldn't you steal her cat? So no more at present from yours ever, Rose B. P.S.—You ought to do some dictation." And then came the last. "Dear Mr. Stiggins,—The brooch is beautiful; I've got it in my frock now, but daredn't go down in it for fear of Emma. I wonder you could ever mention Jones minor to me. Why do you speak to him? I don't. I like jam, apricot especially. The lessons are worse than ever, and I wish German was buried. Emma's going to have me put into linear drawing, or some such horrid name, so I mean to break all the pencils. Ever yours, Rose B. P.S.—I'd tell you of something I heard from Jessie Gall, only I'm afraid Emma will be up." These various missives were directed to the gentlemen, each of them receiving the title of "esquire," and Miss Rose locked up her treasures, the brooch included. A little cousin of hers who was in the junior class, and ran in at will, was made the messenger on either side; otherwise the young men might have found it difficult to convey their offerings to the shrine. A few days passed. One dark evening Mrs. Butter was in her kitchen, making toast for her not very welcome lodger-guest, who had descended from his room of concealment to talk to her and enjoy the warmth, when there came a sudden and imperious knocking at the casement. Down went the toasting-fork, and Tom Brabazon sprang from the fire into a dark corner. "Not there, Mr. Tom," she whispered. "Better go upstairs again; it's safest." One fear only was in the mind of both of them—that this peremptory summons must mean mischief to the fugitive hiding from the law. Mrs. Butter, when he had escaped, drew the heavy red curtain from before the window, and looked out. She expected to see some officers of justice there, or something as formidable; her heart rose to her month; he _was_ her old master's son, with all his faults and sins, and she would have shielded him with her life. "Don't open the door on any account," softly cried Tom Brabazon, from the stairs.