Helen was in great agitation. “Write--write--my dear, directly,” said Mrs. Collingwood, “for the post-boy waits.” And before she had written many lines the cross-post boy sent up word that he could wait no longer. Helen wrote she scarcely knew what, but in short an acceptance, signed, sealed, delivered, and then she took breath. Off cantered the boy with the letters bagged, and scarcely was he out of sight, when Helen saw under the table the cover of the packet, in which were some lines that had not yet been read. They were in Lady Cecilia’s handwriting--a postscript. “I forgot, dear Helen, the thing that is most essential, (you remember our friend Dumont’s definition of _une betîse: c’est d’oublier la chose essentielle;_) I forgot to tell you that the general declares he will not hear of a mere _visit_ from you. He bids me tell you that it must be ‘till death or marriage.’ So, my dear friend, you must make up your mind in short to live with us till you find a General Clarendon of your own. To this postscript no reply--silence gives consent.” “If I had seen this!” said Helen, as she laid it before Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood, “I ought to have answered, but, indeed, I never saw it;” she sprang forward instantly to ring the bell, exclaiming, “It is time yet--stop the boy--‘silence gives consent.’ I must write. I cannot leave you, my dear friends, in this way. I did not see that postscript, believe me I did not.” They believed her, they thanked her, but they would not let her ring the bell; they said she had better not bind herself in any way either to themselves or to Lady Cecilia. Accept of the present invitation she must--she must go to see her friend on her marriage; she must take leave of her dear Lady Davenant before her departure. “They are older friends than we are,” said Mr. Collingwood, “they have the first claim upon you; but let us think of it as only a visit now. As to a residence for life, that you can best judge of for yourself after you have been some time at Clarendon Park; if you do not like to remain there, you know how gladly we shall welcome you here again, my child; or, if you decide to live with those you have known so long and loved so much, we cannot be offended at your choice.” This generous kindness, this freedom from jealous susceptibility, touched Helen’s heart, and increased her agitation. She could not bear the thoughts of either the reality or appearance of neglecting these kind good people, the moment she had other prospects, and frequently in all the hurry of her preparations, she repeated, “It will only be a visit at Clarendon Park. I will return to you, I shall write to you, my dear Mrs. Collingwood, at all events, constantly.”