The proposition that young Frobisher maintained, in letter after letter, was this: that when a girl had promised to marry a fellow, she should never thereafter write to him without telling him somewhere—he did not care a fig (not he!) whether it was in the beginning, or the end, or the middle of the letter—that she loved him; just for the sake of cheering a fellow up, you know, away down here in the country, and all that. He would be satisfied even with a postscript of three words (he would), if you would but let him name the words, etc., etc. After this she had never written a letter without a postscript; but whether from the love of teasing, which is innate in cats and young women, when they have a mouse or a man in their power, or from genuine maidenly modesty, she never said, in plain English, exactly what Charley wished to hear; as, P.S.—_Unreasonable old goose_, or, _How could I?_ or, _I wonder if I do?_ or, _What do you think?_ But they were the merriest letters that ever were seen, and made Charley so happy (for all his grumbling) that at this period of his life he used to wake up a dozen times a night, smiling to himself, all in the dark; then float off again into a dreamland populous with postscripts of the most maudlin description. “Do you know,” said he, in one of his letters, “that never once in my whole life has a woman said to me, _I love you_?” Opening the reply hastily (to read the postscript first), the violets had dropped out, covering the poor boy with blissful confusion. _I don’t hate you a bit_, said the postscript. Some metaphysical notion must have come into Charley’s head, as he read those words _don’t hate_. Did he, perhaps, think, that somewhere between the negative don’t and the positive hate there must lurk, though invisible, the longed-for word love? At any rate, selecting a spot midway, he kissed it with accuracy and fervor. “Umgh—umgh!” grunted Uncle Dick, who had happened to step up on the threshold just at this critical and romantic juncture. “I did nothing of the kind!” said Charley. “What?” asked the Don, looking up from his letter. “Nothing,” said Charley. “Uncle Dick!” called Charley, at the door whence the venerable butler had vanished, “come here! I say, if ever you tell Uncle Tom—” “Tell him what, Marse Charley?” “You old villain! There,—go to the sideboard and help yourself!” “Much obleeged, mahrster; my mouf is a leetle tetched wid de drought, dat’s a fac’. And here’s many happy returns to you, likewise all enquirin’ friends; and here’s hopin’ dat de peach may tase as sweet in you mouf as it look to you a-hangin’ on de tree!” And he vanished, backing out of the room, smiling and bowing— As though a courtier quitted the presence-chamber of Louis Quatorze!