My dear Jean,—I am so unhappy that I wish I could die on the spot. It is a great grief to me that you have never returned, and that you do not talk of coming back soon. And now my parents, backed up by my godfather, want to marry me to that horrid Suirot, of whom I have told you. People din into my ears that he is rich, and that I ought to feel honoured because he has made me an offer. I say no, you may be sure, and I am crying my eyes out. My dear Jean, I am very unhappy, because everyone is against me. Olivette and Rose laugh when they see me always with red eyes; I think they would be very glad to marry that big booby Suirot, if he would only have them. As for me, the mere thought of it makes me shudder; and I will positively never marry him. If they drive me to it, I will run away from them all, and go into the convent of St Bruno. If only I could sometimes pay your people a visit, it would cheer me up to have a talk with your mother, whom I love and respect as if I were her daughter. But as it is, I am given black looks, because I go there too often, and who knows if I shall not soon be forbidden to go at all. My dear Jean, you must do exactly what I am going to tell you. I hear there are wicked rumours about you; I say to myself that people spread them for the sole purpose of influencing me. But I do not believe one word of all these stories. They are impossible, and no one here knows you as well as I do. All the same, I should be happy if you would say one little word on this subject, and if you would tell me of your affection for me; you know that it is always pleasant to hear about it, even if one is sure of it. And then, write to my father immediately and ask for my hand in marriage, and be sure to promise him that when you are home and my husband, you will always behave like a sensible, steady man, against whom nothing can be said. And then I will beg him on my knees. The good God pity us, my dear Jean! Your betrothed for life, JEANNE MÉRY. In country places young people are not taught to express in any way the sentiments of the heart. Girls brought up on the land sometimes feel very deeply, but they have no words to utter their emotions and thoughts; the subtle diction of passion is unknown to them. They cannot explain their feelings, save by the help of simple unimpassioned phrases. Therein lies the whole difference.