“'And now, Fifine, to say adieu until it be my happiness once again to embrace you and that dear Carew, who must have more good qualities than I have known centred in one individual, to deserve you. Think of me, dearest cousin, and do not forget Jocasse.'”
“The association will aid you much,” said my father, dryly.
“'Let him have a cheerful room, and put me anywhere, so that I have a place in your heart. Your dearly attached cousin,
“'Emile de Gabriac.'”
“Is that all?” asked my father, as she concluded.
“A few words on the turn-down: 'Hortense has just sent me her picture. She is blond, but her eyes want color; the hair, too, is sandy, and not silky; the mouth—But why do I go on?—it is not Fifine's.'”
“Our cousin is the most candid of mortals,” said my father, quietly; “whatever opinion we may entertain of his other gifts, on the score of frankness he is unimpeachable. Don't you think so, Miss Polly?”
“His letter is a most unreserved one, indeed,” said she, cautiously.
And now a silence fell on all, for each was following out in his own way some train of thought suggested by the Count's letter. As if to change the current of his reflections, my father once more turned to the letter-bag, and busied himself running hastily over some of the many epistles addressed to him. Apparently there was little to interest or amuse amongst them, for he threw them from him half read,—some, indeed, when he had but deciphered the writers' names; one short note from Hackett, his man of business, alone seemed to excite his attention, and this he read over twice.
“Look at that, Dan,” said he, handing the paper to MacNaghten, who, walking to the window slowly, perused the following lines:—