"Owen," cried his wife, interfering for the first time, in response to
the look of appeal that Lily turned upon her, "you _must_ write!"

"Celia," he retorted boldly, "I _won't_ write. I have a genuine regard
for Hoskins; I respect him, and I am very grateful to him for all his
kindness to you. He has been like a brother to you both."

"Why, of course," interrupted Lily, "I never thought of him as anything
_but_ a brother."

"And though I must say I think it would have been more thoughtful
and--and--more considerate in him not to do this--"

"We did everything we could to fight him off from it," interrupted Mrs.
Elmore, "both of us. We saw that it was coming, and we tried to stop it.
But nothing would help. Perhaps, as he says, he _did_ have to do it."

"I didn't dream of his--having any such--idea," said Elmore. "I felt so
perfectly safe in his coming; I trusted everything to him."

"I suppose you thought his wanting to come was all unconscious
cerebration," said his wife disdainfully. "Well, now you see it wasn't."

"Yes; but it's too late now to help it; and though I think he ought to
have spared us this, if he thought there was no hope for him, still I
can't bring myself to inflict pain upon him, and the long and the short
of it is, I _won't_."

"But how is he to be answered?"

"I don't know. _You_ can answer him."

"I could never do it in the world!"

"I own it's difficult," said Elmore coldly.

"Oh, _I_ will answer him--I will answer him," cried Lily, "rather than
have any trouble about it. Here,--here," she said, reaching blindly for
pen and paper, as she seated herself at Elmore's desk, "give me the ink,
quick. Oh, dear! What shall I say? What date is it?--the 25th? And it
doesn't matter about the day of the week. 'Dear Mr. Hoskins--Dear Mr.
Hoskins--Dear Mr. Hosk'--Ought you to put Clay Hoskins, Esq., at the top
or the bottom--or not at all, when you've said Dear Mr. Hoskins?
Esquire seems so cold, anyway, and I _won't_ put it! 'Dear Mr.
Hoskins'--Professor Elmore!" she implored reproachfully, "tell me what
to say!"

"That would be equivalent to writing the letter," he began.

"Well, write it, then," she said, throwing down the pen. "I don't _ask_
you to dictate it. Write it,--write anything,--just in pencil, you know;
that won't commit you to anything; they say a thing in pencil isn't
legal,--and I'll copy it out in the first person."

"Owen," said his wife, "you shall not refuse! It's inhuma