Carolyn _did_ think of it! The idea once presented, she could not banish it again;—the hope of a reconciliation once raised, could not be suppressed! She could think of nothing else. “It was but an act of common justice—it was a duty,” she repeated to herself, many times, to answer the objections of her pride, which argued, “It is undignified, unwomanly, to make this overture.” Then her love, her benevolence, her fears for him, pleaded, “It will make him so happy—it will fill his heart with courage, and his arm with strength for the battle! And suppose he should be killed?—what intolerable remorse will be added to your sorrow for him when you reflect that he died without a relenting word from you, who have been so cruelly unjust to him! That he died under your own sentence of exile! Besides, if none of these things happen, can _you_ bear these weary, weary days of estrangement, absence, and suspense?—weary, weary days, that will slowly, slowly drag themselves through weeks, and months, and years of time?” Oh, no! No, no! She cannot bear that prospect! She will be just—she will do her duty, and satisfy her affection at the same time. _Down, pride!_ for she will write that letter. She did write it. She did not read it over again, lest scorn should rise and compel her to hurl it down and set her heel upon it. She set her teeth almost grimly in her determination to protect that gentle, loving missive of sorrow and affection from an assault of her besetting sin, as she sealed and directed it. She then slipped on her dressing-gown, and stole down the back stairs, where she found a boy lounging. She ordered him to saddle a horse immediately, and take that letter to the post-office. Nay, she waited till she saw the boy off, and was sure that none had seen him or the letter he carried. Then she returned to her own room, determining that no soul—not her father—not even Zuleime, should share her confidence and know her condescension. CHAPTER XI. MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. A father suffering, and a step-dame false, A foolish suitor to a wedded lady. SHAKSPEARE—CYMBELINE. Zuleime went into the parlor and found her father alone. He was sitting in an easy-chair, doing nothing, but apparently waiting for her. “Come hither, Zuleime,” he said. And when she went up to him, he drew her upon his knee, and passed his left arm around her waist, while, with his right hand, he smoothed her black hair. And he gazed fondly in her face. He noticed that her cheek was pale, and her countenance pensive, but hoped that it was from the excitement of the night before. He could not bear to think of its being regret for Frank. He feared to ask her the cause of her seriousness. He disliked to recall Frank in any manner to her recollection. He wished her to forget him, if possible. At least, _he_ would do so.