past all taking back again; still more, past all giving to another. I love you! There, Monsieur, be content. I have written the words again, and they are true words,—indeed, indeed they are.
"I did not intend to write this sort of letter, I wanted to be quiet and composed;—yes, sir, and perhaps prosy. It is your fault that I fall away from my good intentions. But I read over again your impetuous sentences. I find your trouble and emotion to be contagious. I, too, find my cheeks glowing and my hand trembling. You see what mischief you occasion; you disturb not merely yourself but me also, and what have I done that I should be treated in such a way? But I forgive you. Is not that magnanimous? There—and I have kissed the paper just where I write; you kiss there, too, and consider yourself pardoned, provided that you never offend any more in the same way.
"I have no news, except that we all liked your paper in the . Even Madge, who still thinks you might be lighter, was pleased; and papa, though he did not say much, took the paper into the surgery, and, I'm sure, read it over many times quietly and enjoyed it immensely. I feel so happy when I hear you praised. Can you account for that in any way? I like to think that the world is beginning to open its eyes to your great merits; but for heaven's sake, Wilford, don't be tempted to overwork yourself. I am quite sure that you are not too well yet, for all your talk to the contrary. Be careful, mind. I'm certain I shall like Mr. Martin, your friend, and especially if he does not tempt you to sit up too late or to fatigue yourself unnecessarily!
"I am rather tired to-day, for we went last night to a party at the Eastwoods. Madge desires me to say that it was quite a grown-up party, and almost a ball. Tommy Eastwood wore a tail-coat, and blushed superbly when he asked Madge to dance. But he's such a nice boy—it's quite a shame to laugh at him, and we're all going to mend in that respect. Madge looked so pretty—you don't know how proud of her I felt. She wore a white rose from your favourite tree, I may tell you, in her hair, which I think—and so do you, don't you?—to be beautiful in colour, though the people here (except, perhaps, T. Eastwood, Esq.) do not appreciate it. Round her neck was that grand gold chain you were so good as to give her. I love you very much, sir, for loving my darling Madge. You can't think how nice she looked. Her dress was white tarlatan, very full, of course (don't laugh, sir), without trimming of any kind. The whole effect was charming, and you should have seen her eyes—so beautifully blue—so sparkling with happiness! I think I have never seen any one so pretty as my Sister Madge; and she's as good as she's pretty, as you very well know, and T. E. ought to consider himself very happy; but there, I quite forgot, there is to be no more joking on that subject.
"And how was I dressed? I suppose you will be sufficiently interested to inquire. Well, then, I did not have a new dress—economy is the order of the day as you very well remark, and I wore my pink glacé silk, which looked very well, and I did not dance much, but played for the young people—was not that right?—and I sung all my best songs, and I enjoyed myself tolerably, wishing very much that you had been one of the party.
"Mrs. Stephen calls constantly and is most kind. She brought over the baby to see us only this morning. It is such a lovely child, and so good—it never cries—and it has quite the Hadfield expression. Are you determined that it shall not be called after you? Do you know that Gertrude is very angry about that? and she scolds me! as if I was anybody or could do anything. I am very fond of Gertrude—the more I see of her the more I like her; you may think her a little cold at first, but that notion wears off, and indeed it is not founded upon truth. Stephen is teaching Madge to ride—she looks so well upon the white pony—but I think she is really rather frightened, although she would rather die, I believe, than admit it.
"Agnes and Saxon are growing quite tall; they are coming to see us to-morrow; they are nice children, but just a trifle spoiled. Agnes is learning her notes under my tuition; her ear is wonderfully good, and I think she will in time be able to play very nicely. On Friday we are going to tea at Mr. Mainstone's, and papa will accompany us. I'm sure it will do him good. He keeps on saying that he grows too old to go out in the evening unless he is quite obliged, but I know he will enjoy a gossip with dear old Mr. Mainstone. Shall you feel jealous if I tell you I think the old clergyman a very charming person indeed?
"There, I have exhausted quite my stock of news, and tried your patience, very likely; yet—no, I don't really think that. I am sure that what interests me will interest you also in a great measure. Yet these small events in Grilling Abbots must look smaller than ever to you in London, where everything seems to be on such a colossal scale. Surely there are only masses in town—never individuals. How far you are from us! But don't look at our occurrences through the small end of your telescope—magnify them, and you will be nearer to us—well, then, to me! I believe you prefer that I should say that. Adieu, dearest. Madge sends her love—she says, respects,—but she does not mean that. Papa sends all sorts of kind messages. He declares if you won't say anything about your health that he will send up all sorts of physic on the chance of your needing it. Adieu. And I—well—I love you! Will that do?
"Violet Fuller."
These samples of the lovers' letters will suffice; there were plenty more of them, however.
Wilford worked hard in London—seldom leaving it—taking few holidays. He was in Paris for three days, but the visit was on business for the most part.
A year after his wooing he went down to Grilling Abbots and wedded—a most quiet wedding—early in the morning at Mr. Mainstone's church. The whole business was over and the happy pair had almost left the place before Grilling Abbots became conscious of what had happened.
"My dear sister, for you are now really my