* * * “Father is getting more and more feeble, and wandering in his mind; this is very dreadful; he calls me sometimes by my mother’s name; and when I say—it is Isabel—he says—what Isabel! and treats me as if I was a stranger. The physician shakes his head when I ask him of father; oh, Paul, if he should die—what could I do? I should die, too—I know I should. Who would there be to care for me? Lilly is married, and Ben is far off, and you, Paul, whom I love better than either, are a long way from me. But God is good, and He will spare my father. * * * “So you have seen again your little Carry. I told you it would be so. You tell me how accidental it was; ah, Paul, Paul, you rogue, honest as you are, I half doubt you there! I like your description of her, too—dark eyes like mine, you say—’almost as pretty;’ well, Paul, I will forgive you that; it is only a white lie. You know they must be a great deal prettier than mine, or you would never have stayed a whole fortnight in an old farmer’s house far down in Devon! I wish I could see her; I wish she was here with you now; for it is midsummer, and the trees and flowers were never prettier. But I am all alone; father is too ill to go out at all. I fear now very much that he will never go out again. Lilly was here yesterday, but he did not know her. She read me your last letter; it was not so long as mine. You are very—very good to me, Paul. * * * “For a long time I have written nothing; my father has been very ill, and the old housekeeper has been sick, too, and father would have no one but me near him. He can not live long. I feel sadly—miserably; you will not know me when you come home; your ‘pretty Bella’—as you used to call me—will have lost all her beauty. But perhaps you will not care for that, for you tell me you have found one prettier than ever. I do not know, Cousin Paul, but it is because I am so sad and selfish—for sorrow is selfish—but I do not like your raptures about the Roman girl. Be careful, Paul; I know your heart; it is quick and sensitive; and I dare say she is pretty and has beautiful eyes; for they tell me all the Italian girls have soft eyes. “But Italy is far away, Paul; I can never see Enrica; she will never come here. No—no, remember Devon. I feel as if Carry was a sister now. I can not feel so of the Roman girl; I do not want to feel so. You will say this is harsh, and I am afraid you will not like me so well for it; but I can not help saying it. I love you too well, Cousin Paul, not to say it.