to commune with herself alone.

CHAPTER VII.

ONLY a few minutes had Mrs. Markland been in her room, when the door
opened quietly, and Fanny's light foot-fall was in her ears. She did
not look up; but her heart beat with a quicker motion, and her
breath was half-suspended.

"Mother!"

She lifted her bowed head, and met the soft, clear eyes of her
daughter looking calmly down into her own.

"Fanny, dear!" she said, in half-surprise, as she placed an arm
around her, and drew her closely to her side.

An open letter was in Fanny's hand, and she held it toward her
mother. There was a warmer hue upon her face, as she said,--

"It is from Mr. Lyon."

"Shall I read it?" inquired Mrs. Markland.

"I have brought it for you to read," was the daughter's answer.

The letter was brief:

"To MISS FANNY MARKLAND:

"As I am now writing to your father, I must fulfil a half promise,
made during my sojourn at Woodbine Lodge, to write to you also.
Pleasant days were those to me, and they will ever make a green spot
in my memory. What a little paradise enshrines you! Art, hand in
hand with Nature, have made a world of beauty for you to dwell in.
Yet, all is but a type of moral beauty--and its true enjoyment is
only for those whose souls are attuned to deeper harmonies.

"Since leaving Woodbine Lodge, my thoughts have acquired a double
current. They run backward as well as forward. The true hospitality
of your manly-hearted father; the kind welcome to a stranger, given
so cordially by your gentle, good mother; and your own graceful
courtesy, toward one in whom you had no personal interest,
charmed--nay, touched me with a sense of gratitude. To forget all
this would be to change my nature. Nor can I shut out the image of
Aunt Grace, so reserved but lady-like in her deportment; yet close
in observation and quick to read character. I fear I did not make a
good impression on her--but she may know me better one of these
days. Make to her my very sincere regards.

"And now, what more shall I say? A first letter to a young lady is
usually a thing of shreds and patches, made up of sentences that
might come in almost any other connection; and mine is no exception
to the rule. I do not ask an answer; yet I will say, that I know
nothing that would give me more pleasure than such a favour from
your hand.

"Remember me in all kindness and esteem to your excellent parents.

"Sincerely yours,
LEE LYON."

The deep breath