"And the letter?"
"Oh! there's the letter."
"But what shall I say? Of course I shall write to-night."
"Tell her to wait a fortnight. And, Frank, mind you bring your father with you."
Frank could draw nothing further from his friend save constant repetitions of this charge to him to wait a fortnight,—just one other fortnight.
"Well, I will come to you at any rate," said Frank; "and, if possible, I will bring my father. But I shall write to Mary to-night."
On the Saturday morning, Mary, who was then nearly broken-hearted at her lover's silence, received a short note:—
My own Mary,
I shall be home to-morrow. I will by no means release you from your promise. Of course you will perceive that I only got your letter to-day.
Your own dearest,
Frank.
P.S.—You will have to call me so hundreds and hundreds of times yet.
Short as it was, this sufficed Mary. It is one thing for a young lady to make prudent, heart-breaking suggestions, but quite another to have them accepted. She did call him dearest Frank, even on that one day, almost as often as he had desired her.