I cannot say how it came about, but I could not help observing that, by degrees, a manifest softening appeared in Charley’s mode of speaking of his father, although I knew that there was not the least approach to a more cordial intercourse between them. I attributed the change to the letters of his sister, which he always gave me to read. From them I have since classed her with a few others I have since known, chiefly women, the best of their kind, so good and so large-minded that they seem ever on the point of casting aside the unworthy opinions they have been taught, and showing themselves the true followers of Him who cared only for the truth, and yet holding by the doctrines of men, and believing them to be the mind of God. In one or two of Charley’s letters to her I ventured to insert a question or two, and her reference to these in her replies to Charley gave me an opportunity of venturing to write to her more immediately, in part defending what I thought the truth, in part expressing all the sympathy I honestly could with her opinions. She replied very kindly, very earnestly, and with a dignity of expression as well as of thought which harmonized entirely with my vision of her deeper and grander nature. The chief bent of my energies was now to vindicate for myself a worthy position in the world of letters; but my cherished hope lay in the growth of such an intimacy with Mary Osborne as might afford ground for the cultivation of far higher and more precious ambitions. It was not, however, with the design of furthering these that I was now guilty of what will seem to most men a Quixotic action enough. ‘Your sister is fond of riding--is she not?’ I asked Charley one day, as we sauntered with our cigars on the terrace of the Adelphi. ‘As fond as one can possibly be who has had so little opportunity,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to have a ride with her and Clara the very evening when that miserable affair occurred. The loss of that ride was at least as great a disappointment to me as the loss of the sword.’ ‘You seem to like my sister, Wilfrid,’ he said. ‘At least I care more for her good opinion than I do for any woman’s--or man’s either, Charley.’ ‘I am so glad!’ he responded. ‘You like her better than Clara, then?’ ‘Ever so much,’ I said. He looked more pleased than annoyed, I thought--certainly neither the one nor the other entirely. His eyes sparkled, but there was a flicker of darkness about his forehead. ‘I am very glad,’ he said again, after a moment’s pause. ‘I thought--I was afraid--I had fancied sometimes--you were still a little in love with Clara.’ ‘Not one atom,’ I returned. ‘She cured me of that quite. There is no danger of that any more,’ I added--foolishly, seeing I intended no explanation. ‘How do you mean?’ he asked, a little uneasily. I had no answer ready, and a brief silence followed. The subject was not resumed.