It was not a lengthened epistle.  He began with an acknowledgment of the receipt of his mother’s letter, expressed his sympathy in the sorrow and suffering at Viamede, gave a brief account of his accident, consequent illness, and partial recovery, highly eulogizing Zoe as the best of wives and nurses.

When he began that, her pen ceased its movement, and was held suspended over the paper, while, blushing deeply, she turned to him with a remonstrance.

“Don’t ask me to write that:  I am ashamed to have mamma see it in my handwriting.”

“Go on,” he said:  “she will know they are my words, and not yours.”

“Well, I obey orders,” she replied with a smile; “but I don’t half like to do it.”

“Then let me,” he said.  “If you will hold the desk on the arm of my chair for five minutes, and give me the pen, I can finish up the thing easily, and without the least danger of hurting my precious self.”

She did as directed.  “There, now lie back in your chair, and rest,” she said, when he had finished his note, and signed his name.  “You do look a little tired,” she added, with an anxious glance at him as she returned the desk to the table.

“Nonsense! tired with that slight exertion!” he responded gayly.  “You may read that over, and see if it wants any correction.”

She did so, then, turning toward him with an arch smile, asked, “May I criticise?”

“I should be happy to have the benefit of your criticism,” he said, laughing; “but don’t make it too severe, please.”

“Oh, no!  I was only thinking that mamma, judging of her by myself, would not be half satisfied with such a bare statement of facts, and that I had better write a supplement, giving her more of the particulars.”

“I highly approve the suggestion,” he answered, “only stipulating that you shall not spend too much time over it, and shall read it to me when finished.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be worth your hearing.”

“Let me judge of that.  If not worth my hearing, can it be worth mamma’s reading?”

“Perhaps so,” she said with a blush; “because what I tell will be news to her, but not to you.”

“Ah!  I hadn’t thought of that.  But I shall want to hear it all the same, and take my turn at criticism.”

“If you are not more severe than I was, I can stand it,” she said.  “And now please keep quiet till I am done.”

He complied, lying back at his ease, and amusing himself with watching her, admiring the graceful pose of her figure, the pretty face bending over the paper, and the small, white, shapely hand that was gliding swiftly back and forth.

“Come,” he said at last, “you are making quite too long a story of it.”

“Mamma won’t think so,” she retorted, without looking up; “and you know you are not obliged to hear it.”

“Ah! but that is not the objection; I want to hear every word of it:  but I can’t spare my companion and nurse so long.”