“A.  B.”

For a moment Angela was tempted to mistrust this enclosure, and almost come to the determination to throw it into the fire, feeling sure that a serpent lurked in the grass and that it was a cunningly disguised love-letter.  But curiosity overcame her, and she opened it as gingerly as though it were infected, unfolding the sheet with the handle of her hair-brush.  Its contents were destined to give her a surprise.  They ran thus: 

“Isleworth Hall, September 20.

“My dear Cousin,

“After what passed between us a few days ago you will perhaps be surprised at hearing from me, but, if you have the patience to read this short letter, its contents will not, I fear, be altogether displeasing to you.  They are very simple.  I write to say that I accept your verdict, and that you need fear no further advances from me.  Whether I quite deserved all the bitter words you poured out upon me I leave you to judge at leisure, seeing that my only crime was that I loved you.  To most women that offence would not have seemed so unpardonable.  But that is as it may be.  After what you said there is only one course left for a man who has any pride—­and that is to withdraw.  So let the past be dead between us.  I shall never allude to it again.  Wishing you happiness in the path of life which you have chosen,

“I remain,
“Your affectionate cousin,
“George Caresfoot.”

It would have been difficult for any one to have received a more perfectly satisfactory letter than this was to Angela.

“Pigott,” she called out, feeling the absolute necessity of a confidant in her joy, and forgetting that that worthy soul had nothing but the most general knowledge of George’s advances, “he has given me up; just think, he is going to let me alone.  I declare that I feel quite fond of him.”

“And who might you be talking of, miss?”

“Why, my cousin George, of course; he is going to let me alone, I tell you.”

“Which, seeing how as he isn’t fit to touch you with a pair of tongs, is about the least as he can do, miss, and, as for letting you alone, I didn’t know as he ever proposed doing anything else.  But that reminds me, miss, though I am sure I don’t know why it should, how as Mrs. Hawkins, as was put in to look after the vicarage while the Reverend Fraser was away, told me last night how as she had got a telegraft the sight of which, she said, knocked her all faint like, till she turned just as yellow as the cover, to say nothing of four-and-six porterage, the which, however, she intends to recover from the Reverend—­Lord, where was I?”

“I am sure I don’t know, Pigott, but I suppose you were going to tell me what was in the telegram.”

“Yes, miss, that’s right; but my head does seem to wool up somehow so at times that I fare to lose my way.”

“Well, Pigott, what was in the telegram?”

“Lord, miss, how you do hurry one, begging your pardon; only that the Reverend Fraser—­not but what Mrs. Hawkins do say that it can’t be true, because the words warn’t in his writing nor nothing like, as she has good reason to know, seeing that——­”