When I read the letter, my eyes were opened to the fact that there was more fire in Frances’s heart than I had supposed any woman capable of holding in subjection.  But that is a mistake often made by men.

This was my cousin’s “cut and pruned” letter:—­

“DEAR ONE: 

“Baron Ned says my letter must be short, so I smother what remnant of modesty I have, covering nothing with the veil of circumlocution, but telling you plainly what I know you want to hear.  I love only you and am true to you in every thought, word, and deed.  I long for you, yearn for you, pray for you, and be your fortune good or ill, I would share it and give you a part of the bliss of life which you would give to me.

“So I pray you, do not desert me in case your present hope of good fortune fails you, but let me know at any time, and I will go to you, and will go with you wherever you will take me.

“You will say, I fear, that none but a crazy woman would write such a letter as this, but if that be true, the world doubtless is and always has been populated by maniacs, and I pray God always will be.  I pray you, remember, in judging me, that you are you and that I am but a woman by whom the good or evil of life is reckoned in the measure of her love; her joy or misery being only a matter of down weight or light weight more in the love she gives than in that which she receives.  Remember, also, that in this letter I must condense when I might easily be prolix, and that after all is written, probably I shall have left unsaid the very thing I most wished to say.  But these three words will tell it all and bear repeating:  I love you.

“FRANCES.”

And this from my sensible cousin!  What would it be if her heart were not balanced by a wise head?

Our letters being written, I became alarmed about posting them in London, not knowing when a messenger would start for France, nor who he would be.  The next day Frances and I talked it over, and she suggested that as the king and most of the court were about to visit Bath for a season, and as neither she nor I cared to go, we should take the letters to Dover, cross to Calais, and post them in France.

I sprang at the idea, but immediately sprang back, saying:  “But it is not entirely proper for us to travel to Calais together, even though you are my sister-cousin.”

“We may take father,” she suggested.  “Sarah wants to visit Lady St. Albans, and she can go if we take father with us.  And, Baron Ned; I have another suggestion to offer.  Let us take Bettina.”

I sprang at that proposal and did not spring back.  So we went first to my uncle, who said he would go with us, and then we went to see Bettina.  She had recovered from her sprains and bruises, although she was still pale and not quite strong.

When Frances asked her to go with us, she answered, “Ay, gladly, if father consents.”

Pickering, who was sitting with us at the time in Bettina’s cozy parlor, turned to me, laughing, and said:—­