perfect and entire; and he had no fear of not accomplishing this, although Miss Wilton were not united with the present object of her choice. More than this, indeed, he said, but enough has been given to show the purpose with which his communication was framed. Mr. Wilton received the epistle upon the morning of the _rencontre_ between Colonel Mires and Mr. Chewkle. He read it with feverish pleasure again and again. Then he rang his bell, and bade the servant who attended to request Miss Wilton to come to him immediately in his library. Flora, with a beating heart, obeyed the summons. Interviews with her father in his library of late had not been pleasurable to her. He evidently regarded her as a rebel in captivity, himself being the stern judge before whom she was occasionally brought, in order that she might, with frowns, be lectured out of her contumacy. Unfortunately for the purpose he entertained, Flora’s nature was one not to be frowned either into or out of anything upon which she had decided a certain line of conduct was the proper path to pursue, and when he grew angry and wroth, and styled her stubborn, she felt an inward conviction that she was not obstinate, but firm in acting rightly. On appearing before her father, he commanded rather than requested her to be seated. She obeyed; and then taking up Lester Vane’s letter, he handed it to her. “Read that,” he said; and added, authoritatively, “attentively.” She took the letter apprehensively, but felt relieved when she found the handwriting was unknown to her. A few glances made her mistress of the name of the writer, and then it flashed across her mind that her father’s eyes would be bent keenly upon her face, and he would read every expression that her emotions raised during the perusal might place there. She set her teeth and lips closely together, contracted her brow and read slowly on to the end without losing a word or betraying any other sign than a slight curl of the upper lip. When she had finished its perusal, she returned it to her father without a word. He waited for a minute expecting her to speak, but she continued silent. A flush mounted to his forehead, and his brow loured. “What answer have you to make, Miss Wilton?” he asked, rather impetuously. “I would rather be excused answering your question, sir,” she returned, in a low tone. “No doubt you would,” he responded, promptly; “but I require you to answer me.” “The letter is not addressed to me,” she said, coldly. “No!” he rejoined, sharply; “but it makes most important references to you; it aptly describes the situation in which we are all placed, and appears to me to be conceived in the very noblest spirit.” Flora’s lip curled most expressively. “I say, in the very noblest spirit!” almost roared her father. “And yet so transparent as to disclose the motives which originated and have governed its composition,” she observed, calmly.