There is a young lady here whom it is intended that I shall marry.  She is the pink of propriety and really very pretty;—­but you need not be a bit jealous.  The joke is that my brother is furiously in love with her, and that I fancy she would be just as much in love with him only that she’s told not to.—­A thousand kisses.

It was not much of a love letter, but there were a few words in it which sufficed altogether for Kate’s happiness.  She was told that she had all his heart,—­and she believed it.  She was told that she need not be jealous of the proper young lady, and she believed that too.  He sent her a thousand kisses; and she, thinking that he might have kissed the paper, pressed it to her lips.  At any rate his hand had rested on it.  She would have been quite willing to shew to her mother all these expressions of her lover’s love; but she felt that it would not be fair to him to expose his allusions to the “beastliness” at the stations.  He might say what he liked to her; but she understood that she was not at liberty to shew to others words which had been addressed to her in the freedom of perfect intimacy.

“Does he say anything of the old man?” asked Mrs. O’Hara.

“He says that his uncle is better.”

“Threatened folks live long.  Does Neville tell you when he will be back?”

“Not exactly; but he says that he will not stay long.  He does not like Scroope at all.  I knew that.  He always says that,—­that—­”

“Says what, dear?”

“When we are married he will go away somewhere,—­to Italy or Greece or somewhere.  Scroope he says is so gloomy.”

“And where shall I go?”

“Oh, mother;—­you shall be with us, always.”

“No, dear, you must not dream of that.  When you have him you will not want me.”

“Dear mother.  I shall want you always.”

“He will not want me.  We have no right to expect too much from him, Kate.  That he shall make you his wife we have a right to expect.  If he were false to you—­”

“He is not false.  Why should you think him false?”

“I do not think it; but if he were—!  Never mind.  If he be true to you, I will not burden him.  If I can see you happy, Kate, I will bear all the rest.”  That which she would have to bear would be utter solitude for life.  She could look forward and see how black and tedious would be her days; but all that would be nothing to her if her child were lifted up on high.

It was now the beginning of April, which for sportsmen in England is of all seasons the most desperate.  Hunting is over.  There is literally nothing to shoot.  And fishing,—­even if there were fishing in England worth a man’s time,—­has not begun.  A gentleman of enterprise driven very hard in this respect used to declare that there was no remedy for April but to go and fly hawks in Holland.  Fred Neville could not fly hawks at Scroope, and found that there was nothing for him to do.  Miss Mellerby