clear-headed as he is, so fastidious about women! And yet this letter
spoke decidedly. People talk of love! and Arthur is so easy, he would
let himself be drawn on rather than make a disturbance. He might be
ensnared with his eyes open, because he disliked the trouble of
breaking loose, and so would not think of the consequence. Nothing
could save him so well as some one going to him. He can read a letter
or not as he chooses. Oh, if papa were at home--oh, if Mr. Wingfield
were but Percy Fotheringham--he who fears no man, and can manage any
one! Oh! if I could go myself; he heeds me when he heeds no one else.
Shall I go? Why not? It would save him; it would be the only
effectual way. Let me see. I would take Simmonds and Pauline. But
then I must explain to my aunt. Stuff! there are real interests at
stake! Suppose this is exaggeration--why, then, I should be
ridiculous, and Arthur would never forget it. Besides, I believe I
cannot get there in one day--certainly not return the same. I must
give way to conventionalities, and be a helpless young lady.'

She reached the house, and quickly dashed off her letter:--


'My Dear Arthur,--I hope and trust this letter may be quite uncalled
for, though I feel it my duty to write it. I used to have some
influence with you, and I should think that anything that reminded you
of home would make you pause.

'Report has of course outrun the truth. It is impossible you should be
on the brink of marriage without letting us know--as much so, I should
trust, as your seriously contemplating an engagement with one beneath
your notice. I dare say you find it very pleasant to amuse yourself;
but consider, before you allow yourself to form an attachment--I will