Captain Clifton had written to Carl Kavanagh, informing him of the situation he had procured for the sister of the latter, at Hardbargain. And within this letter he had inclosed a longer one, to Kate, filled with good counsels and urgent reasons why she should yield to the wishes of her brother, and accept the place offered to her. After having dispatched these letters by a boy, who left White Cliffs that afternoon, on horseback, he delivered himself up to the delights of Miss Clifton’s society, forgetting all about the mountain-girl, until the next day, when, being seated in the library, his messenger returned, entered his presence, and handed him a packet. It was a letter from Carl Kavanagh, enclosing one from Kate. He read Carl’s epistle first. It began by expressing much gratitude to his benefactor, for his kindness in having procured a situation for his sister, and went on by expressing much sorrow that he could not prevail upon Kate, either by entreaties or threats, to accept it, and unbounded indignation at what he called the girl’s wicked stubbornness. The letter closed by reiterating the thanks of the writer. Captain Clifton held the letter open in his hand, and lifting his head, fell into deep thought. It was strange how much this little matter depressed him. Account for it, any philosopher that can. Some proud people have a proclivity to patronage—Captain Clifton was very proud, and perhaps he was piqued at being prevented playing the patron. Perhaps it was really disappointed benevolence. Only it is certain that Archer Clifton did not possess that quality to an immoderate degree—and having once done his duty of charity, would be likely to content himself with any result. Perchance he felt a deeper interest in the rugged little mountaineer than he would have acknowledged, even to himself. Perhaps it was prescience—the shadow of coming events. Be that as it may, Archer Clifton walked up and down the floor in silent thought, occasionally broken by a slight sigh. It was wonderful how much the knowledge that he should not have this child at home in his mother’s house vexed his soul. At length he recollected Kate’s own letter, yet unopened. But of what avail to read it! It would certainly be the counterpart of Carl’s. He opened it. It was not, however. In the first place, the paper was perfectly clean; and in the second, the writing, spelling, and style, were rather better. She acknowledged the goodness of Captain Clifton, in taking thought of her humble wants—expressed regret that she could not avail herself of his kindness—could not leave her grandfather, who needed her services, and subscribed herself Captain Clifton’s obliged and grateful servant. It _was_ very much like Carl’s, after all. But here is a postscript. What more can she have to say, after what she has said, thought Clifton, as he turned to it. It read thus—