"I was glad to hear from you that your health is better. But, dear childie, there was much in your letter to disquiet me. I do beg of you to read no more poetry that is not known to be of sound evangelical teaching. I should like you to promise me that you will not read any poetry except what is by Frances Ridley Havergal, Eliza Cook, or Mrs. Hemans. The works of those three saintly women can only do you good, and there is only too great reason to fear that poetry as a rule leads one's thoughts away from higher things. So promise me this, my dear girlie, that my mind may be at rest about you. As to this Lord Byron you mention, I have never read any poem of his and I never shall, for I understand that he was a man of very evil life, and an unbeliever, and that it is quite unlikely he is in heaven, as you seem to suppose. I hope you will dismiss him and all his works from your mind. I cannot see any use in your learning the Greek alphabet. The Ancient Greeks were wicked heathens, and it can do no one any good to know about them. I hope you read 'The Upward Path' regularly. I shall always be glad to hear from you, and I shall never fail to remember you in my prayers. Like our dear Bruey, I keep my daily little list and I hope you do the same.
"Let me have your promise, dear girlie, and I shall feel more happy about you—although we are parted in body we can still commune in spirit, and I shall be most happy to supervise your reading, and to send you little suitable books from time to time. I have a sweet class at the Bainbridge, and our weekly meetings are very helpful. Always your friend and well-wisher,
"BLANCHE STUKELY."
Jane-Anne found this letter somewhat difficult to decipher, as Miss Stukely wrote a sloping, pointed hand, much more trying to read than that of Montagu or his guardian.
So, in defiance of all her aunt's rules, she invaded Mr. Wycherly in his study directly after breakfast, and asked him to read it aloud for her. He did so, and when he had finished she cast herself upon the ground despairingly, and burst into violent sobs.
This tragic reception of what, to him, seemed a singularly ill-considered and narrow-minded letter, fairly flabbergasted Mr. Wycherly, and for a minute or two he sat at his table in perfect silence, holding Miss Stukely's missive in his hand, irritably aware that it was written on scented note-paper, and that he abominated the odour. He looked down at the lithe, slender figure prone upon the floor in absolute abandonment of grief, and at last he asked:
"Why do you cry, Jane-Anne?"
Jane-Anne rolled over, sat up, and gasped out between her sobs:
"Because she says he isn't in heaven, and if he isn't in heaven then he must be in hell for ever and ever, and I can never, never feel happy any more."
"Get up, child, and sit upon a chair," Mr. Wycherly said sternly. He had an old-fashioned objection to scenes, and an indefinable feeling that to lie on the floor was neither decorous nor dignified, even for a little girl of twelve. Neither physical nor mental déshabillé appealed to him. "Now tell me, why should you take it for granted that Lord Byron—is not in heaven?"