Laurence wandering abroad, and writing to Caroline, as to a sister—writes more than his father could have wished. He has met new faces, very sweet faces; and one which shows through the ink of his later letters, very gorgeously. The old gentleman does not like to lose thus his little Carry! and he writes back rebuke. But Laurence, with the letters of Caroline before him for data, throws himself upon his sister’s kindness and charity. It astonishes not a little the old gentleman, to find his daughter pleading in such strange way for the son. “And what will you do then, my Carry?”—the old man says. —“Wear weeds, if you wish, sir; and love you and Laurence more than ever!” And he takes her to his bosom, and says—“Carry—Carry, you are too good for that wild fellow Laurence!” Now, the letters are different! Now they are full of hope—dawning all over the future sky. Business, and care, and toil glide, as if a spirit animated them all; it is no longer cold machine work, but intelligent and hopeful activity. The sky hangs upon you lovingly, and the birds make music that startles you with its fineness. Men wear cheerful faces; the storms have a kind pity, gleaming through all their wrath. The days approach, when you can call her yours. For she has said it, and her mother has said it; and the kind old gentleman, who says he will still be her father, has said it, too; and they have all welcomed you—won by her story—with a cordiality that has made your cup full to running over. Only one thought comes up to obscure your joy—is it real? or if real, are you worthy to enjoy? Will you cherish and love always, as you have promised, that angel who accepts your word and rests her happiness on your faith? Are there not harsh qualities in your nature which you fear may sometime make her regret that she gave herself to your love and charity? And those friends who watch over her, as the apple of their eye, can you always meet their tenderness and approval, for your guardianship of their treasure? Is it not a treasure that makes you fearful, as well as joyful. But you forget this in her smile; her kindness, her goodness, her modesty, will not let you remember it. She _forbids_ such thoughts; and you yield such obedience as you never yielded even to the commands of a mother. And if your business and your labor slip by, partially neglected—what matters it? What is interest or what is reputation compared with that fullness of your heart, which is now ripe with joy?