I once told you, reader, of Sophie’s deep veneration for truth, that would never permit her even to prevaricate. She was silent, and Emily looking again into her eyes, refrained from asking her any more questions, but smiled to herself, as in a few minutes she said to Sophie:— “Now, my love, I have got to answer my brother’s letter by return mail; will you excuse me? I will not leave your side, but draw the stand to me, and write it here; it will not occupy me more than fifteen minutes.” She drew her writing-desk before her, and, selecting her paper, commenced writing, while Kitty brought in the tea-things. At last, looking up from her work, she said:— “I have told Augustus that you are sitting by my side while I write; now what shall I tell him from _you_?” Sophie was still silent. “Come, Sophie!” “Give him my respects.” “Fiddle-sticks! why did you not send your _duty_ at once, like a school-girl to her papa? your respects!” but then she looked at Sophie and saw her still so pale, so tremulous, that she turned and quietly resumed her writing. If you had been looking over her shoulder, you might have read the following lines: “Dearest brother—dearest Augustus—welcome! first to your native shores, and then soon, very soon, I hope, to your sister’s home and bosom. Now concerning the subject of your letter, I must write cautiously, as I perceive that _you_ recollected to do—because our worthy old post-mistress takes the liberty of peeping in at the ends of all private and confidential letters that pass and repass through her hands.[5] She will get something indigestible if she pries into this; no matter for her! About this other affair—yes, come! I have no _doubt_ of it, _never_ have had from first to last, though nothing in her manner, no look, word, or gesture, ever revealed the fact to me until this afternoon; nay, I believe the poor thing was unconscious herself, for you know I think she is one of the excellent of the earth, one of God’s peculiar favorites; and through all these dark days I always had a faith in her eventual happiness even in this world, for the promise, Augustus, is both for _this_ world and the next; hear it, ‘Godliness is profitable unto _all things_, having the promise of _the life that now is_, and of that which is to come;’ and listen again! for I don’t think that you attend to these things as much as you ought to: ‘No man hath left house, or parents, or brethren, or wife, or children, for the kingdom of God’s sake, that shall not receive manifold more in this _present time_, and in the world to come life everlasting;’ and _her_ martyrdom, poor girl, was so sincere, however mistaken—so sincere and complete, for she thought it for life! It was all rayless darkness to her; the future illumined only by her Christian love and faith. And she is so beautiful, Augustus; so much more beautiful now at twenty-five, than she was at