You should come hither but that I expect my brother every day; not but that he designed a longer stay when he went, but since he keeps his horses with him ’tis an infallible token that he is coming.  We cannot miss fitter times than this twenty in a year, and I shall be as ready to give you notice of such as you can be to desire it, only you would do me a great pleasure if you could forbear writing, unless it were sometimes on great occasions.  This is a strange request for me to make, that have been fonder of your letters than my Lady Protector is of her new honour, and, in earnest, would be so still but there are a thousand inconveniences in’t that I could tell you.  Tell me what you can do; in the meantime think of some employment for yourself this summer.  Who knows what a year may produce?  If nothing, we are but where we were, and nothing can hinder us from being, at least, perfect friends.  Adieu.  There’s nothing so terrible in my other letter but you may venture to read it.  Have not you forgot my Lady’s book?

CHAPTER V

THE LAST OF CHICKSANDS.  FEBRUARY AND MARCH 1654

The quarrel is over, happily over, and Dorothy and Temple are more than reconciled again.  Temple has been down to Chicksands to see her, and some more definite arrangement has been come to between them.  Dorothy has urged Temple to go to Ireland and join his father, who has once again taken possession of his office of Master of the Rolls.  As soon as an appointment can be found for Temple they are to be married—­that is, as far as one can gather, the state of affairs between them; but it would seem as if nothing of this was as yet to be known to the outer world, not even to Dorothy’s brother.

Letter 48.

SIR,—­’Tis but an hour since you went, and I am writing to you already; is not this kind?  How do you after your journey; are you not weary; do you not repent that you took it to so little purpose?  Well, God forgive me, and you too, you made me tell a great lie.  I was fain to say you came only to take your leave before you went abroad; and all this not only to keep quiet, but to keep him from playing the madman; for when he has the least suspicion, he carries it so strangely that all the world takes notice on’t, and so often guess at the reason, or else he tells it.  Now, do but you judge whether if by mischance he should discover the truth, whether he would not rail most sweetly at me (and with some reason) for abusing him.  Yet you helped to do it; a sadness that he discovered at your going away inclined him to believe you were ill satisfied, and made him credit what I said.  He is kind now in extremity, and I would be glad to keep him so till a discovery is absolutely necessary.  Your going abroad will confirm him much in his belief, and I shall have nothing to torment me in this place but my own doubts and fears.  Here I shall find all the repose I am capable of, and nothing will disturb