She had often wished to persuade herself that Mark's morose, sullen humour was the discontent of one who felt the ignominy of an inglorious life--that habits of recklessness had covered, but not obliterated the traces of that bold and generous spirit for which his family had been long distinguished; and now, for the first time, she believed she had fallen on the evidences of such a temper. She pondered long on this theme, and fancied how, under circumstances favourable to their development, Mark's good qualities and courageous temper, had won for him both fame and honour. “And here,” exclaimed she, half aloud, “here, he may live and die a peasant!” With a deep sigh, she threw herself into a chair, and as if to turn her thoughts into some channel less suggestive of gloom, she opened the letter Mark had given her. Scarcely, however, had she cast her eyes over it, when she uttered a faint cry, too faint, indeed, to express any mere sense of fear, but in an accent in which terror and amazement were equally blended. The epistle was a brief one--not more than a few lines--and she had read it at a glance, before ever there was time to consider how far her doing so was a breach of confidence; indeed, the intense interest of the contents left little room for any self-examinings. It ran thus:-- “Dear Brother--No precipitation--no haste--nothing can be done without France. T. has now good hopes from that quarter, and if not 30,000, 20,000, or at least 15,000 will be given, and arms for double the number. Youghal is talked of as a suitable spot; and H. has sent charts, &c. over. Above all, be patient; trust no rumours, and rely on us for the earliest and the safest intelligence. L. will hand you this. You must contrive to learn the cipher, as any correspondence discovered would ruin all. “Your's ever, and in the cause, “H. R.”