better than I did had no interest for my correspondent whatever.
I remarked, however, throughout the whole composition, that "mamma's"
sentiments and regulations were treated with an unusual degree of
contempt, and the writer's own opinions asserted with a boldness and
freedom I had never before observed in my strait-laced, hypocritical
cousin. Mr. Haycock's name, too, was very frequently brought on the
_tapis_: he seemed to have breakfasted with them, lunched with them,
walked, driven, played billiards with them, and, in short, to have
taken up his residence almost entirely at Dangerfield. The postscript
explained it all, and the postscript I give verbatim as I read it
aloud to Cousin John whilst we were whizzing along at the rate of
forty miles an hour.

"_P.S._--I am sure my dear Kate will give me joy. You cannot have
forgotten a _certain_ person calling this autumn at Dangerfield for a
_certain_ purpose, in which he did not seem clearly to know his own
mind. Everything is now explained. My dear Herod (is it not a pretty
Christian name!)--my dear Herod is all that I can wish, and assures me
that all along _it_ was intended for me. The _happy day_ is not yet
fixed; but my dearest Kate may rest assured that I will not fail to
give her the _earliest intelligence_ on the _first opportunity_. Tell
Mr. Jones I shall be married before him, after all."

The last sentence escaped my lips without my meaning it. Had I not
come upon it unexpectedly, I think I should have kept it to myself.
John blushed, and looked hurt. For a few minutes there was a
disagreeable silence, which we both felt awkward. He was the first to
break it.

"Kate," said he, "do you think I shall be married before Miss
Horsingham?"

"How can I tell?" I replied, looking steadfastly out of the window,
whilst my colour rose and my heart beat rapidly.

"Do you believe that Welsh story, Kate?" proceeded my cousin.

I knew by his voice it _couldn't_ be true; I _felt_ it was a slander;
and I whispered, "No."

"One more question, Kate," urged Cousin John, in a thick, low voice.
"Why did you refuse Frank Lovell?"

"He never proposed to me," I answered; "I never gave him an
opportunity."

"Why not?" said my cousin.

"Because I liked some one else better," was my reply; and I think
those few words settled the whole business.

* * * * *

I shall soon be five-and-twenty now, and on my birthday I am to be
married. Aunt Deborah has g