“Now, my dear Barrington,” continued Withering's letter, “there is a great deal in this that I like, and something with which I am not so much pleased. If, however, I am not the Major's advocate to the extent he asks, or expects me, it is because I feel that to be unjustly dealt with is a stronger claim on your heart than that of any other man I ever met with, and the real danger here would be that you should suffer that feeling to predominate over all others. Consult your granddaughter's interests, if you can, independently of this; reflect well if the plan be one likely to promise her happiness. Take your sensible, clear-headed sister into your counsels; but, above all, ascertain Josephine's own sentiments, and do nothing in direct opposition to them.”
“There, Dinah,” said Barrington, placing the letter in her hands, “this is as much to your address as to mine. Read it over carefully, and you'll find me in the garden when you have done.”
Miss Barrington laid down her great roll of worsted work, and began her task without a word. She had not proceeded very far, however, when Josephine entered in search of a book. “I beg pardon, aunt, if I derange you.”
“We say disturb, or inconvenience, in English, Miss Barrington. What is it you are looking for?”
“The 'Legend of Montrose,' aunt. I am so much amused by that Major Dalgetty that I can think of nothing but him.”
“Umph!” muttered the old lady. “It was of a character not altogether dissimilar I was thinking myself at that moment. Sit down here, child, and let me talk to you. This letter that I hold here, Josephine, concerns you.”
“Me, aunt—concerns me? And who on earth could have written a letter in which I am interested?”
“You shall hear it.” She coughed only once or twice, and then went on: “It's a proposal of marriage,—no less. That gallant soldier who left us so lately has fallen in love with you,—so he says, and of course he knows best. He seems fully aware that, being older than you, and graver in temperament, his offer must come heralded with certain expressions almost apologetic; but he deals with the matter skillfully, and tells us that being well off as regards fortune, of good blood, and with fair prospects before him, he does not wish to regard his suit as hopeless. Your grandfather was minded to learn how you might feel disposed to accept his addresses by observing your demeanor, by watching what emotion mention of him might occasion, by seeing how far you felt interested in his good or ill repute. I did not agree with him. I am never for the long road when there is a short one, and therefore I mean to let you hear his letter. This is what he writes.” While Miss Dinah read the extract which the reader has just seen, she never noticed, or, if noticed, never attended to, the agitation in her niece's manner, or seemed to remark that from a deep-crimson at first her cheeks grew pale as death, and her lips-tremulous. “There, child,” said Miss Dinah, as she finished—“there are his own words; very ardent words, but withal respectful. What do you think of them,—of them and of him?”
Josephine hung down her head, and with her hands firmly clasped together, she sat for a few moments so motionless that she seemed scarcely to breathe.
“Would you like to think over this before you speak of it, Josephine? Would you like to take this letter to your room and ponder over it alone?” No answer came but a low, half-subdued sigh.