Captain L'Estrange had proceeded with his troop by slow stages to the Preston barracks, situated a short distance out of Brighton, on the Lewes road. His faith in Ellen was still secure, though it had been somewhat rudely shaken by her singular conduct since the arrival of Lord Wentworth. He could not but have noticed that a kind of _gene_ had sprung up between them; but he paid little attention to his mind's suggestions, and thought that in a short time all would run smooth again. With this idea, one of the first things he did after his arrival was to write a long and affectionate letter to his betrothed. It was long, very long ere he received an answer; and when at last it came it was calculated in no way to alleviate his apprehensions, but consisted chiefly of a very brilliant description of the election ball, Lord Wentworth's attentions, and also their day at the Towers. L'Estrange was deeply annoyed, and in the heat of his excitement wrote an ill-judged and hasty reply, blaming her for coldness, rallying her about setting her cap at the young peer, and concluding with a remonstrance, telling her that she was unjustified in allowing any one to share so much of her affections. Had his evil genius instigated him, he could hardly have been urged to a worse course. At once it touched Ellen's pride and honour, and stirred up all her slumbering dislike to L'Estrange into actual hatred; and flushed with rage she sat down and wrote an angry letter, in which she told him that she was not the girl to brook such conduct; that a passion, never very strong in her, had long been lessening; that his letter had smothered the last spark!--she now considered herself free as air, and he might do the same; if that was a prelude to their future married life, she thanked heaven it had not come too late: and in conclusion begged all communication might for ever cease between them. In an agony of rage and despair, L'Estrange threw the fatal epistle behind the fire: he saw he had gone too far, and resolved, if possible, to turn the tide. But it was to no purpose he now penned an apology; it was too late to urge his expiring suit--too late to beseech her to forgive and forget all; the bird was free! and rejoicing in her newly-acquired freedom, was in no hurry to become again a captive. He only received a cold and polite note, saying her refusal was final, and the more he burned the colder would her bosom grow.