macy with your family.—I must add, and with you. I feel that my home is lonely, uncheered by affection. I desire to have some one to love and to care for. I think I could make one even young as you are happy. I should watch over, and seek to screen your path even from the shadow of a sorrow. Knowing your affectionate temper, I feel that it would add to your happiness, having a home to offer any of your family. I think also that you would be happy in making me so. Sometimes I picture to myself a cheerful future, whose sunshine I shall owe to yourself, and then again I am discouraged.
"Do not decide hastily, consult any friend you please, think over your tastes and fancies, be even unreasonable in conjuring up objections, think of yourself while you decide. You will ever have an anxious and indulgent friend in
"Your truly affectionate"
Francis Glentworth."
The letter dropped on the floor as Isabel raised her pale and bewildered face from its perusal. "He does not love me; he marries me out of pity to us all;" and her head dropped upon her arm, while the large tears dropped slowly through her clasped hands. "I must write," exclaimed she, "and tell him how grateful I am, but that he need not think of marrying me." She drew the paper towards her, but, instead of writing, she began to read his letter again. A shade of indecision passed over her face, and she read it over
