WE had calculated to a nicety the possible time in which we could receive a letter from Reginald Melville, taking into consideration the accidents of wind and water at sea, and the delays and uncertainties on land; but, at length, the time had arrived when each day was a continued torture. Ah! which of us do not remember, at some time of our lives, the dreadful alternations of sickly hope and bitter disappointment we have experienced in waiting for _that letter_ so long delayed? Each morning, as we arose, we have said to ourselves—“To-day it will surely come.” How we watch the clock! We are quite relieved to hear it is ten minutes too fast: the ten minutes pass—another five also, and we send down to know if the postman is late to-day. We are somewhat consoled to hear that he is occasionally even later. How our heart beats as we see him turn the corner: how dreadfully slow he walks. He stops to speak to some one. Oh! will he _never_ cease talking? We feel tempted to fly down and relieve our insupportable anxiety; but a horrible fear we will not confess to ourselves freezes us into stone. No, better wait—it can be but a few moments. The postman goes to the house near by. Happy inmates! One, two—yes, three letters for them. At length he approaches—will he pass by? No, he stops. Two letters. We feel that we shall faint, if they are not brought up at once; yet we dare not go to meet them. Five minutes, which seem an eternity, and the servant enters with the letters. How sick we turn—it is not there! And this torment we must undergo daily, till a kind Providence guides that long-desired letter to our hands—too often, when it comes, the bearer of ill-tidings, of change, of sickness, of death. Poor mortals! Cruel, indeed, were our destiny, did not the glimpse of a happier morrow brighten for us the deep shadows which envelope the tomb! Ella, though a mere child in years, shared the anxiety of her mother with almost womanly tenderness. My little god-daughter was a most interesting girl. She was now about eleven years of age, and bore the promise of remarkable loveliness. Like her mother in regularity of feature, she was still of quite a different style of beauty. Her complexion was of that transparent fairness which an artist in order to copy would tinge with a blue shade. Her hair, of the color called in France _blond cendré_, fell in rich wavy masses to her waist. To a casual observer Ella might appear calm—almost cold; but _we_ knew her to possess intense feeling beyond her years.