“Fanny, dear!” she said, in half-surprise, as she placed an arm around her, and drew her closely to her side.

An open letter was in Fanny’s hand, and she held it toward her mother.  There was a warmer hue upon her face, as she said,—­

“It is from Mr. Lyon.”

“Shall I read it?” inquired Mrs. Markland.

“I have brought it for you to read,” was the daughter’s answer.

The letter was brief: 

“To Miss Fanny Markland: 

“As I am now writing to your father, I must fulfil a half promise, made during my sojourn at Woodbine Lodge, to write to you also.  Pleasant days were those to me, and they will ever make a green spot in my memory.  What a little paradise enshrines you!  Art, hand in hand with Nature, have made a world of beauty for you to dwell in.  Yet, all is but a type of moral beauty—­and its true enjoyment is only for those whose souls are attuned to deeper harmonies.

“Since leaving Woodbine Lodge, my thoughts have acquired a double current.  They run backward as well as forward.  The true hospitality of your manly-hearted father; the kind welcome to a stranger, given so cordially by your gentle, good mother; and your own graceful courtesy, toward one in whom you had no personal interest, charmed—­nay, touched me with a sense of gratitude.  To forget all this would be to change my nature.  Nor can I shut out the image of Aunt Grace, so reserved but lady-like in her deportment; yet close in observation and quick to read character.  I fear I did not make a good impression on her—­but she may know me better one of these days.  Make to her my very sincere regards.

“And now, what more shall I say?  A first letter to a young lady is usually a thing of shreds and patches, made up of sentences that might come in almost any other connection; and mine is no exception to the rule.  I do not ask an answer; yet I will say, that I know nothing that would give me more pleasure than such a favour from your hand.

“Remember me in all kindness and esteem to your excellent parents.

“Sincerely yours,
Lee Lyon.”

The deep breath taken by Mrs. Markland was one of relief.  And yet, there was something in the letter that left her mind in uncertainty as to the real intentions of Mr. Lyon.  Regret that he should have written at all mingled with certain pleasing emotions awakened by the graceful compliments of their late guest.

“It’s a beautiful letter, isn’t it, mother?”

“Yes, love,” was answered almost without reflection.

Fanny re-folded the letter, with the care of one who was handling something precious.

“Shall I answer it?” she inquired.

“Not now.  We must think about that.  You are too young to enter into correspondence with a gentleman—­especially with one about whom we know so little.  Before his brief visit to Woodbine Lodge, we had never so much as heard of Mr. Lyon.”