On the morning of the day following that of Hetty Blair’s call at Rose Mount, Mr. Keymer senior found among his letters one superscribed to his son. Its only postmark was that of St. Oswyth’s. The brewer turned it over more than once, and re-read the address with growing curiosity. “Quite a young lady’s hand; my first wife used to write almost exactly like it,” he muttered. “It must be from _her_—nay, I’m sure it is. In that case I shall be perfectly justified in opening it. The little affair as between Miss Ethel Thursby and my son is one which concerns me as much as, if not more than, it does Launce himself.” Without more ado he took his penknife, slit open the envelope, and extracted the enclosure. “Ah, as I thought. Dated from Rose Mount, that little white cottage on the Shackleford Road where I am told the spinsters have gone to reside since their come-down in the world; and signed ‘Ethel Thursby.’ I rather expected the young lady would have written long before now. Reproaching him for his silence and all that sort of thing, I don’t doubt. Well, well, poor girl, one can’t wonder at it. I wish, for all our sakes, that matters had turned out differently. But Providence orders things after its own fashion, and we can but submit.” With that he lay back in his chair and settled his spectacles on his nose. His face was a study as he read. “If—remembering what passed between you and me only a few hours before you left St. Oswyth’s—I were to begin by stating that during the weeks which followed your departure I did not look and expect to hear from you, nor fail to wonder at your unaccountable silence, I should be asserting that which was not the fact. “I _did_ look and expect to hear from you, and was wholly at a loss to understand why I failed to do so. Now, I am no longer at a loss. The motive by which you have all along been actuated has at length been made clear to me. The scales have been plucked from before my eyes. “From what I now know of you, it is impossible for me any longer to doubt that when you asked me to become your wife, it was not because you cared for me for myself, but because you looked forward to my one day becoming the heiress of my dear aunts. When, however, on the evening of my birthday, you gathered from a certain letter which you were allowed to read that my aunts had lost the greater part of their fortune, you at once made up your mind to snap the chain by which you had bound yourself to me such a little while before. The readiest way of effecting this, as it seemed to you, was to abruptly quit St. Oswyth’s a few hours later without informing me of the place for which you were bound, and to maintain an unbroken silence from that time forward. “I congratulate you on the success which has crowned your efforts.