Then there came a further letter from Mr. Neefit, from which there arose some increase of confidence among the brothers. There was nothing special in this letter. These letters, indeed, were very like to each other, and, as had now come to be observed, were always received on a Tuesday morning. It was manifest to them that Neefit spent the leisure hours of his Sundays in meditating upon the hardness of his position; and that, as every Monday morning came, he caused a new letter to be written. On this particular Tuesday, Ralph had left home before the post had come, and did not get the breeches-maker's epistle till his return from hunting. He chucked it across the table to Gregory when he came down to dinner, and the parson read it. There was no new attack in it; and as the servant was in the room, nothing was then said about it. But after dinner the subject was discussed. "I wish I knew how to stop the fellow's mouth," said the elder brother. "I think I should get Carey to see him," suggested Gregory. "He would understand a lawyer when he was told that nothing could come of it but trouble to himself and his daughter." "She has no hand in it, you know." "But it must injure her." "One would think so. But she is a girl whom nothing can injure. You can't imagine how good and how great she is;--great in her way, that is. She is as steady as a rock; and nobody who knows her will ever imagine her to be a party to her father's folly. She may pick and choose a husband any day she pleases. And the men about her won't mind this kind of thing as we should. No doubt all their friends joke him about it, but no one will think of blaming Polly." "It can't do her any good," said Gregory. "It cannot do her any harm. She has a strength of her own that even her father can't lessen." "All the same, I wish there were an end of it." "So do I, for my own sake," said Ralph. As he spoke he filled his glass, and passed the bottle, and then was silent for a few moments. "Neefit did help me," he continued, "and I don't want to speak against him; but he is the most pig-headed old fool that ever existed. Nothing will stop him but Polly's marriage, or mine." "I suppose you will marry soon now. You ought to be married," said Gregory, in a melancholy tone, in which was told something of the disappointment of his own passion. "Well;--yes. I believe I might as well tell you a little secret, Greg." "I suppose I can guess it," said Gregory, with still a deeper sound of woe. "I don't think you can. It is quite possible you may, however. You know Mary Bonner;--don't you?" The cloud upon the parson's brow was at once lightened. "No," said he. "I have heard of her, of course." "You have never seen Mary Bonner?"