and sing some of those pretty hymns on Sunday.  Do you ever go to see my poor sick friend Wilks?  I think he would like to see a little girl some times.  Try him with a bonbon and with the poetry under the pictures of flowers in your new book.  Give my love to all the kind friends, and keep a great lot for your dear little self.

From your own EUGENE.

“Where is the book?” asked Marjorie, when the letter was read to her by the lady whom she had written so slightingly of.  Miss Carmichael looked over her own mail matter, and found a large flat volume addressed Miss Marjorie Carmichael, while the other packages bore simply Miss Carmichael.  She opened it up, and found the book demanded.  The lawyer had been so full of the name that he had written it mechanically, instead of Miss Marjorie Thomas.  Marjorie was not well pleased that her cousin should have usurped her book, but loyalty to Eugene made her suppress any expression of indignation.  Mr. Terry had to read that letter through his spectacles, and Tryphosa; and on Sunday she proposed to invade the sanctity of Mr. Wilks’ chamber and interest him in both letter and book.

The Sunday came and went, and then the slow week dragged along.  Whoever would have thought that, a short time ago, they had been so cheerful, so merry, even with danger threatening and death at their door.  The dominie was out of his room at last, walking about with his arm in a sling, rejoicing in changes of raiment which Coristine had sent from his boarding house by express and the mail waggon.  The city clothes suited him better than his pedestrian suit, and made him the fashionable man of the neighbourhood.  In conversation over his friend, he remarked that he was pleased to find Corry toning down, writing quiet sensible letters, without a single odious pun.  “Puir laddie!” said the Squire, “if it wad mak him blither, I could stan’ a haill foolscap sheet o’ them.  I’m feard the city’s no’ agreein’ wi’ him.”  Before noon on Friday there came a hard rider to the Bridesdale gate, a special telegraph messenger from Collingwood, with a telegram for Mrs. Carruthers.  She took it hastily from Timotheus, and, breaking the seal, read to the group gathered about her:  “If agreeable, Douglas and I will be with you by Saturday’s stage.  Please answer by bearer.  Eugene Coristine.”  The Squire, home a little sooner than usual, said:  “Let me answer that, Honoria,” and retired to his office.  When he came out, it was with a written paper in his hand, which he read for approval.  “You and Douglas heartily welcome—­will meet you at station, so do not disappoint.”  This was accepted by a unanimous vote; after which the messenger partook of a hasty meal, as did his horse, and then galloped back to town.  “The waggonette will hold six,” said the Squire; “that’s Coristine, Mr. Douglas and me.  Who are the other three?  Will you no come, Marjorie?  The ride’ll dae ye guid, lass.”