to tell
them from India. It was they, walking very slowly, as if waiting for
the news.

"Come!" said he, starting up, and going to meet them. "Now, to the
green walk--we shall be quiet there--and I will read you all about
Frank."

He did read them all about Frank--all the last half of the letter--
Hester hanging on his arm, and Philip and Margaret listening, as if they
were taking in their share of family news. When it was done, and some
one said it was time to be turning homewards, Hope disengaged his arm
from Hester, and ran off, saying that he would report of Mrs Enderby to
Mr Rowland in the office, and meet them before they should be out of
the shrubbery. He did so: but he first took his way round by a fence
which was undergoing the operation of tarring, thrust Frank's letter
into the fire over which the tar was heating, and saw every inch of it
consumed before he proceeded. When he regained his party, Hester took
his arm, and turned once more towards the shrubbery, saying--

"We have plenty of time, and I am not at all tired: so now read me the
rest."

"My love, I have read you all I can."

Hester stopped short, and with flashing eyes, whose fire was scarcely
dimmed by her tears, cried--

"Do you mean to give me no more of your confidence than others? Is your
wife--"

"My dear, it is not my confidence: it is Frank's."

"And is not Frank my brother? He is nothing to them."

"He was not your brother when this letter was written, nor did he know
that he should ever be so. Consider this letter as one of old time--as
belonging to the antiquity of our separate lives. I hope there will
never be another letter from Frank, or anybody else (out of the range of
my professional affairs) whose contents will not be as much yours as
mine. This must satisfy you now, Hester; for I can tell you no more.
This ought to satisfy you."

"It does not satisfy me. I never will be satisfied with giving all, and
having nothing in return. I have given you all. Not a thought has
there been in my heart about Margaret, from the day we married, that I
have not imparted to you. Has it not been so?"

"I believe it, and I thank you for it."

"And what is it to you to have a sister--you who have always had
sisters--what is it to you, in comparison with my longing to have a
brother? And now you make him no more mine than he is Margaret's and
Philip's. He himself, if he has the heart of a brother, would cry out
upon you