I had received one letter from her in the old countries; it was a sweet letter, in which she told me all that she had been doing, and how she had thought of me, when she rambled over the woods where we had rambled together. She had written two or three other letters, Lilly told me, but they had never reached me. I had told her, too, of all that made my happiness; I wrote her about the sweet girl I had seen on shipboard, and how I met her afterward, and what a happy time we passed down in Devon. I even told her of the strange dream I had, in which Isabel seemed to be in England, and to turn away from me sadly because I called—Carry. I also told her of all I saw in that great world of Paris—writing as I would write to a sister; and I told her, too, of the sweet Roman girl, Enrica—of her brown hair, and of her rich eyes, and of her pretty Carnival dresses. And when I missed letter after letter I told her that she must still write her letters, or some little journal, and read it to me when I came back. I thought how pleasant it would be to sit under the trees by her father’s house and listen to her tender voice going through that record of her thoughts and fears. Alas, how our hopes betray us! It began almost like a diary, about the time her father fell sick. “It is”—said she to Lilly, when she gave it to her, “what I would have said to Cousin Paul if he had been here.” It begins:“—I have come back now to father’s house; I could not leave him alone, for they told me he was sick. I found him not well; he was very glad to see me, and kissed me so tenderly that I am sure, Cousin Paul, you would not have said, as you used to say, that he was a cold man! I sometimes read to him, sitting in the deep library window (you remember it), where we used to nestle out of his sight at dusk. He can not read any more. “I would give anything to see the little Carry you speak of; but do you know you did not describe her to me at all; will you not tell me if she has dark hair, or light, or if her eyes are blue, or dark, like mine? Is she good; did she not make ugly speeches, or grow peevish, in those long days upon the ocean? How I would have liked to have been with you, on those clear starlit nights, looking off upon the water! But then I think that you would not have wished me there, and that you did not once think of me even. This makes me sad; yet I know not why it should; for I always liked you best, when you were happy; and I am sure you must have been happy then. You say you shall never see her after you have left the ship; you must not think so, cousin Paul; if she is so beautiful, and fond, as you tell me, your own heart will lead you in her way some time again; I feel almost sure of it.