“No; but this seems to be addressed to you.” And she handed the letter across the table to Leila, preserving the utmost gravity. Leila’s eyes shone with delight, but she concealed that part of her sensation, and only gave vent to her surprise. “Is it possible,” she said, “that there are two persons in the universe that can command a letter from Dr. Delano?” “Let us hear what he says, my daughter,” said Mrs. Forest, gravely. “Yes, do read it, Leila. No doubt it commences ‘Essence of Violet.’” “No; I don’t receive love-letters, Miss Linnie.” “You receive only such, I trust, as are proper to be read in the bosom of the family. Are you very sure of it?” asked the doctor, who, from a glance at Clara, suspected some practical joke upon Leila. Thus badgered, Leila reluctantly unfolded her letter. The first word, which she did not read out, caused the most rosy blush imaginable. The laugh was at Leila’s expense this time, and the next day Clara’s letter came to the breakfast-table without comment. Once, during his father’s illness, Dr. Delano passed a night at Oakdale. It was just cold enough to render the wood fire in the grate, pleasant; for though midwinter, the weather was unusually mild, and the lovers lingered in the parlor long after the family had retired. Every moment was a delight to Clara, and everything the doctor could say possessed a vital interest. He was pleased to commend the old parlor; no room in the world, he said, had so great a charm for him. It was indeed a pleasant old room, permeated and invested by a spirit of comfort and ease that even the new carpet and heavy curtains, lately added by Mrs. Forest, could not destroy. The tall, old-fashioned clock stood diagonally across one of the corners, placidly marking the time and showing the phases of the moon as it had done at least ever since Clara could remember. During the evening’s conversation, Miss Ella Wills was mentioned, and, at Clara’s request, Dr. Delano gave a minute description of all her “points,” as he humorously called them. “Why, she must be very beautiful!” exclaimed Clara. “Not beautiful,” he said, “but very pretty. Clara alone, is really beautiful. She is less than ‘moonlight unto sunlight,’ compared to you, dearest.” And he spoke sincerely, though Ella had revived a little of her old charm for him, and not without design on her part, for flirting was her element; she had reduced it to a science; and then she saw in Albert a very different object from the one she had once made her victim. She had been at Newport on the occasion of his return from Europe, and having a rich lion in tow—even the distinguished and very elegant Count Frauenstein—she did not go home with the rest of the family to meet him, it being the first of the season. She contented herself by sending him kind messages, and soon after he established himself for preliminary practice, in Oakdale, a town where the family name had prestige and influence.