herself to make a free use of the
address.

"Yes, you had better send it," said the squire; and then nothing
further was said at the table. But Lady Arabella, though she said
nothing, had not failed to mark what had passed. Had she asked for
the letter before the squire, he would probably have taken possession
of it himself; but as soon as she was alone with Beatrice, she did
demand it. "I shall be writing to Frank myself," she said, "and will
send it to him." And so, Beatrice, with a heavy heart, gave it up.

The letter lay before Lady Arabella's eyes all that day, and many a
wistful glance was cast at it. She turned it over and over, and much
she desired to know its contents; but she did not dare to break the
seal of her son's letter. All that day it lay upon her desk, and all
the next, for she could hardly bring herself to part with it; but on
the Wednesday it was sent--sent with these lines from herself:--

"Dearest, dearest Frank, I send you a letter which has come by the
post from Mary Thorne. I do not know what it may contain; but before
you correspond with her, pray, pray think of what I said to you. For
my sake, for your father's, for your own, pray think of it."

That was all, but it was enough to make her word to Beatrice true.
She did send it to Frank enclosed in a letter from herself. We must
reserve to the next chapter what had taken place between Frank and
his mother; but, for the present, we will return to the doctor's
house.

Mary said not a word to him about the letter; but, keeping silent on
the subject, she felt wretchedly estranged from him. "Is anything the
matter, Mary?" he said to her on the Sunday afternoon.

"No, uncle," she answered, turning away her head to hide her tears.

"Ah, but there is something; what is it, dearest?"

"Nothing--that is, nothing that one can talk about."

"What Mary! Be unhappy and not to talk about it to me? That's
something new, is it not?"

"One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why.
Besides, you know--"

"I know! What do I know? Do I know anything that will make my pet
happier?" and he took her in his arms as they sat together on the
sofa. Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an
effort to hide them. "Speak to me, Mary; this is more than a
presentiment. What is it?"

"Oh, uncle--"

"Come, love, speak to me; tell me why you are grieving."

"Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me? Why have you not told