think that your cousin would
now pass under your charge with a sincere desire for reform; but
between sincere desire and steadfast performance there is a long
and dreary interval, even to the best of us. Were it not for
Roland, and had I one grain less confidence in you, I could not
entertain the thought of laying on your young shoulders so great a
responsibility. But every new responsibility to an earnest nature
is a new prop to virtue; and all I now ask of you is to remember
that it is a solemn and serious charge, not to be undertaken
without the most deliberate gauge and measure of the strength with
which it is to be borne.

In two days we shall be in London.
Yours, my Anachronism, anxiously and fondly,
A. C.

I was in my own room while I read this letter, and I had just finished
it when, as I looked up, I saw Roland standing opposite to me. "It is
from Austin," said he; then he paused a moment, and added, in a tone
that seemed quite humble, "May I see it,--and dare I?" I placed the
letter in his hands, and retired a few paces, that he might not think I
watched his countenance while he read it. And I was only aware that he
had come to the end by a heavy, anxious, but not disappointed sigh. Then
I turned, and our eyes met; and there was something in Roland's look,
inquiring and, as it were, imploring. I interpreted it at once.

"Oh, yes, uncle!" I said, smiling; "I have reflected, and I have no fear
of the result. Before my father wrote, what he now suggests had become
my secret wish. As for our other companions, their simple natures would
defy all such sophistries as--But he is already half-cured of those. Let
him come with me, and when he returns he shall be worthy of a place in
your heart beside his sister Blanche. I feel, I promise it; do not fear
for me! Such a charge will be a talisman to myself. I will shun every
error that I might otherwise commit, so that he may have no example to
entice him to err."

I know that in youth, and the superstition of first love, we are
credulously inclined to believe that love and the possession of the
beloved are the only happiness. But when my uncle folded me in his arms
and called me the hope of his age and stay of his house,--the music of
my father's praise still ringing on my heart,--I do affirm that I knew
a prouder bliss than if Trevanion had placed Fanny's hand in mine and
said, "She is yours."

And no