“'My dear cousin, it would be a sad abuse of the small space a letter affords, to inquire into the cause of our long silence; faults on both sides might explain much of it. I was never a brilliant correspondent, you were always an indolent one; if I wrote stupid letters, you sent me very brief answers; and if you at last grew weary of giving gold for brass, I can scarcely reproach you for stopping the exchange. Still, at the risk of remaining unanswered, once more--'” “This is intolerable,” broke in Lady Eleanor; “he never replied to the letter in which I asked him to be your godfather.” “'Still, at the risk of remaining unanswered, once more I must throw myself on your mercy. In the selfishness of age,--don't forget, my dear coz, I am eleven years your senior,--in the selfishness of age--'” The old lady smiled dubiously at these words, and Helen read on:-- “'I desire to draw closer around me those ties of kindred and family which, however we may affect to think lightly of, all our experiences in life tend to strengthen and support. Yes, my dear Eleanor, we are the only two remaining of all those light-hearted boys and bright-eyed girls that once played upon the terrace at Netherby. Poor Harry, your old sweetheart at Eton, fell at Mysore. Dudley, with ability for anything, would not wait patiently for the crowning honors of his career, took a judgeship in Madras, and he, too, sleeps in the land of the stranger! And our sweet Catherine! your only rival amongst us, how short-lived was her triumph!--for so the world called her marriage with the Margrave: she died of a broken heart at two-and-twenty! I know not why I have called up these sad memories, except it be in the hope that, as desolation deals heavily around us, we may draw more closely to each other.'” Lady Eleanor concealed her face with her handkerchief, and Helen, who had gradually dropped her voice as she read, stopped altogether at these words. “Read on, dear,” said the old lady, in a tone whose firmness was slightly shaken. “'A heart more worldly than yours, my dear Eleanor, would exclaim that the _parti_ was unequal,--that I, grown old and childless, with few friends left, and no ambitions to strive for, stood in far more need of _your_ affectionate regard, than you, blessed with every tie to existence, did of _mine_; and the verdict would be a just one, for, by the law of that Nemesis we all feel more or less, even in this world, _you_, whom we deemed rash and imprudent, have alone amongst us secured the prize of that happiness we each sought by such different paths.'”