’DEAREST EM,’ she wrote—after having studied a long while as to how she should begin—’would it surprise you to know that I have at last found my _fate_ in the very handsome person of a Scotch gamekeeper? Well, it aint so; don’t break the furniture; but the fact is my poor brain has been wool-gathering a little in this land of wild storms and legends and romantic ballads; and to-morrow I am fleeing away to Paris—the region of clear atmosphere, and reasonable people, and cynicism; and I hope to have any lingering cobwebs of romance completely blown out of my head. Not that I would call it romance, _even if it were to happen;_ I should call it merely the plain result of my father’s theories. You know he is always preaching that all men are born equal; which isn’t true anyhow; he would get a little nearer the truth if he were to say that all men are born equal except hotel clerks, who are of a superior race; but wouldn’t it be a joke if I were to take him at his word, and ask him how he would like a gamekeeper as his son-in-law? But you need not be afraid, my dear Em; this chipmunk has still got a little of her senses left; and I may say in the words of the poet— "There is not in this wide world a valet so sweet"— no, nor any Claude Melnotte of a gardener, nor any handsome coachman or groom, who could induce me to run away with him. It would be "playing it too low down on pa," as you used to say; besides, one knows how these things always end. Another besides; how do I know that he would marry me, even if I asked him?—and I _should_ have to ask him, for he would never ask me. Now, Em, if you don’t burn this letter the moment you have read it, I will murder you, as sure as you are alive.