his not writing so often, and hoped I knew it was because he was so busy, and so much hurried from place to place.

It was a short letter, written late in the evening, and more full of excuses than of news. As if I wanted him to be always afraid of annoying me, or of making me uneasy! I sat down at once and answered the letter; told him not to imagine that I was of an exacting turn-that I was satisfied in the possession of his affection, and did not want him to rob himself of rest in order to assure me of its continuance, a circumstance that I had never doubted.

That was by far the most affectionate letter I had ever written to him, and it did me good; it made me feel so secure, and so trustful. I believe I had a kind of feeling, that, being such a letter as it was, it was almost sure of an answer in a day or two, if not even by return of post; and I set to my work again, after it was written, with a cheerful heart.

But an answer did not come, and when I had waited as long as usual, and two or three days longer, I almost wished he had not taken me so completely at my word. But he was a man and I was a woman: I had taken great pains to make him suppose that I was above, or devoid of, all the little weaknesses, and exactions, and anxieties of my sex. He was treating me, therefore, as if I were a man, taking me at my word, and paying me the compliment to believe me, for when the letter did come (and it came at last) it was short, and contained no allusion to what I had said, but contained a droll account of some cricket matches at which he had been present, and a compliment to me on my good sense, which did not expect him to find time to write as often when his hands were full as when he had nothing to do.

Dear fellow I accepted the compliment, and tried to be pleased with it, and to be sure that the shortness of his letters was no more than I might reasonably expect.

Letters, at least the letters of most people, become unsatisfactory after long absence. At first, after they have parted, there are fresh recollections, and increased familiarity to make them easy; but after a time, if people care for each other very much, and are sensitive, there are frequently misunderstandings, which would occur in personal intercourse and be soon set right, but which, brooded over between the letter and its answer, derive an importance that they do not deserve.

So long as people keep to the relation of facts in their letters, and think they know each other well enough, all is easy, but if they go from facts to opinions and feelings, if they anxiously desire to know each other more and more, it is very hard to do this by such means. There is not the tell-tale human voice, and the changing human eye, to help them to this further acquaintance; the mystery that we want to penetrate, the soul that we want to reach with our souls, cannot

unveil itself to us in a sheet of paper, even if it yearns to do so, and is willing to let us know as much as we can understand.

Some such thought as this was often in my mind, when, recollecting how I had written to him, I read his answers. I wrote from within,

66

he answered from without. I wrote of what I felt, he of what had happened. "Ah, well!" I thought, we shall soon be always together, and then I know I can get you to tell me whatever I please." It was a new phase in his character, to shrink, as it were, from inspection, and it interested, though it teased me. Once he had been too open, too careless, about the impression that might be made by his words and actions; he did not sufficiently sort his thoughts and ideas, but poured them out just as they came to the surface. Now I perceived a certain caution in his letters; he was more anxious to please me; he often apologised for not writing oftener, and sometimes observed that he felt he was unworthy of me, which was such a very new view of things for him to take, that the first time he advanced it I could not help laughing, and then, blushing, I felt that perhaps he was falling in love with me after all!

But by Christmas I began to feel really uneasy at the few letters I got, and their shortness; they were affectionate, but restrained, and I longed for the time when we should meet, for it was of no use writing to inquire the cause of these changes, it only did harm. Sometimes I felt almost afraid that so early a marriage and entrance on the grave responsibilities of life, was beginning to be an alarming idea to him; but this notion I would not allow myself to entertain long, for he was always interested in my accounts of my purchases, particularly about the pattern of the tea-service, and eloquent in his description of the pups he was bringing up to take with him, and the guns he had bought, and fishing tackle and tools.

So I worked on till the last of my gowns was finished, till my wedding-dress, veil, and wreath were packed up, till I had taken my leave of the poor people, and of Miss Tott, the only acquaintance I had in London, and till, having paid all my bills, I found myself seated in the cab, and driving with Anne Molton to the railwaystation, to proceed to Wigfield.

It wanted only a week to the day fixed for my wedding. I had a letter from Mrs. Henfrey in my hand, in which she fixed the train I was to come by. Valentine was in Derbyshire, but he would be home in time to meet me; and she particularly hoped I would take care of a box which she had ordered a man to bring to me at the station; it must come in the carriage with me, and I was to keep my eye on it, for it contained my wedding-cake.

Droll that I should take my own cake down with me; it made me smile through my tears, for I was shedding a few natural tears. At the station, I was to part with Anne Molton, my dear faithful loving friend Anne Molton.

VOL. XI.

L L

We kissed each other when I was seated in the carriage, and she wished me joy. I watched her as the train steamed rapidly out of the station, and felt that I had parted with the only friend I had in the world who was not of my future husband's family, or utterly out of my reach and beyond my ken.

In two days she was to sail, and as we did not mean to do so till about six weeks after our marriage, we hoped she would be in our new home long enough before we reached it to make it orderly and comfortable. To her were intrusted the guns, the seeds, and all the purchases, excepting what I wanted for my own wearing. The pups, of course, were too precious to sail under feminine superintendence ; so was Valentine's cart, and the strong little basket carriage that he had bought for my use.

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when I reached the wellremembered station, and looked out, in a flush of excitement that made me warm from head to foot.

I waited till I feared the train would be going on, then I put out my head, and when I said I was to stop at Wigfield, there was a good deal of bad language used among the men, which hurried me to the point of keeping my wonder at a distance. I got out of the carriage, and being desired to look sharp, ran with the guard to identify my luggage, which they were hauling about with most furious haste, and it was not till I saw it on the pavement, and the train in motion, that this wonder at Valentine's absence returned.

"Is the train before its time?" I asked.

"Quite contrairy," was the gruff answer; "it's a quarter of an hour late."

I walked into the little waiting-room and sat down. At five o'clock, it being dark, and Valentine not come for me, I ordered a fly, and started by myself for the house. I was full of fear that I must have mistaken the day, and hoped if I had they would not suppose I had done it on purpose that I might be with them sooner.

We reached the house and stopped. It became evident to me, before I had crossed the hall, that I was not expected, and when the thin old footman left me in the morning-room, I felt as shy and as ashamed as if I had come unasked, and their neglect in being unprepared was entirely my own fault.

A leisurely foot coming down the stairs, and a very rapid one directly after (Valentine's, I hoped). The latter overtook the former at the stairs foot.

"Come here, and not met!" exclaimed Mr. Brandon: "Why, what does the fellow mean by it!"

"Fellow, Giles!" said Mrs. Henfrey; "how can you call your own brother such a name?"

There was nothing in the name, but there was in the tone. "He wrote," proceeded Mrs. Henfrey," and said he couldn't come

home to-day, and, of course, I supposed he had written to her to the same effect; he said he should.”

"Hang him!" was the fraternal rejoinder; "it's a disgrace to my house, that she should have waited at that hole of a station, on such an occasion too!"

"Well, well," said Mrs. Henfrey, soothingly. "And where have they put the poor child, I wonder?"

During the rapid colloquy, I had just had time to advance to the door, and I now presented myself blushingly, and said, "I am here, Mrs. Henfrey." The words "my house," had accounted to me for St. George's unusual heat, almost at the moment when it astonished me. The sudden consciousness that I was his guest, did not make me feel any the more at home, and I wondered that I had not remembered it before.

He had a bedroom candle in his hand, and when I appeared he cleared his rather irate face as quickly as he possibly could, but was evidently vexed that I should have overheard the conversation, and began to ring for different servants and excite a considerable bustle, with a view, as it appeared, to my speedy accommodation in what he was pleased to consider a suitable style for his brother's bride elect.

So I was shortly taken upstairs and ensconced in the very best bed-room, with a crackling fire, and two large candles, and some big glasses, together with other luxuries to which I had become quite unaccustomed.

I was not seriously uncomfortable at Valentine's absence; he had no doubt written to me, but the letter had not arrived in time to stop me. St. George had only entered the house an hour before I did; he had been away three days, therefore my first reception was quite accounted for, and when I made my appearance in the drawing-room ready dressed for dinner I felt contented and easy, the more so as they all greeted me with kindness.

Two friends of Mr. Brandon's arrived to dine with us, and during dinner there was plenty of conversation, but as time wore on I felt less comfortable, because I had become aware that, though he talked, laughed, and exerted himself, he stole a moment now and then to cogitate, and during these intervals of thought he had a puzzled and surprised air, which came on him many times during the evening and gathered strength every time it occurred.

When two people are deeply interested in a third person, and are thinking of this said third, they sometimes become conscious of each other's thoughts.

I was perfectly certain that St. George, like myself, was thinking of Valentine and considering why he had not returned; we were both travelling on the same road,-the road to Derby,-and our spirits passed and repassed each other on the way.

Every one was cheerful and gay; despite these thoughtful

intervals, he contrived to keep them so. I talked as much as any one, but watched him, and soon found that he was avoiding my eye; he frequently addressed me or answered my questions without looking at me. Here was something more to be disquieted at; he was aware as well as myself of this community of thoughts, and was trying to prevent my reading more of his. One of the strangers began to talk to me, and I was obliged to turn away and listen; when I was released I darted an anxious glance at him, and, thrown off his guard, he involuntarily lifted his eyes. That peculiar change of countenance instantly took place which often follows a consciousness of detection. I had become possessed of something that he wished to hide, and in spite of himself his face acknowledged the fact.

"He will come by the nine o'clock train to-morrow morning, of course," said St. George as we parted for the night.

Liz came up with me to my room, for we had been told that a number of boxes, six or eight boxes, had come for me and had been carried up to my room.

They were marked No. 1, No. 2, &c. And we got No. 1 opened, and found a letter in it from my uncle; a curious formal letter setting forth that he wished me all happiness in the married state, and that he had decided on giving me a trousseau in addition to what he had settled on me, Mr. Brandon, as I might be aware, being my trustee. Mrs. Brand had been sent by him to Paris to choose the trousseau, and he hoped I should approve it.

There was a letter also from Mrs. Brand. She had evidently taken great pleasure in her task, hoped I should like her taste, and reminded me that the gowns were sure to fit, for she had old ones of mine in her possession and had taken them with her as guides.

Neither of us had ever seen such a quantity of grandeur before. Nothing could be more ridiculous than most of these beautiful dresses for a settler's wife in New Zealand, but we decided that I should wear a fresh one every day while I stayed at Wigfield, and we took out a sort of morning robe, of the softest white muslin, with a blue quilted satin petticoat; and in this it was agreed that I should appear before Valentine the next morning and completely take his breath away.

Liz was in such perfectly good spirits, so secure that Valentine would come by the nine o'clock train, that she imparted all her tranquillity to me, but we both sat up so late, fascinated by the fine clothes, that we overslept ourselves the next morning and were neither of us down to family prayers.

We chanced to meet on the stairs, and I said to her, "What time do the letters come in?"

"Not till the same train that brings Valentine," she answered, and she opened the dining-room door and ushered me in with an air. We related the affair of the boxes.

"Isn't this beautiful!" exclaimed Liz.