She received from her Aunt Marrable the
following letter, in which was certainly no word capable of making
her think that now, at last, she could love the man whom she had
promised to marry. And yet this letter so affected her, that she told
herself that she would go on and become the wife of Harry Gilmore.
She would struggle yet again, and force herself to succeed. The
wagon, no doubt, was heavily laden, but still, with sufficient
labour, it might perhaps be moved.

Miss Marrable had been asked to go over to Dunripple, when Mary
Lowther went to Bullhampton. It had been long since she had been
there, and she had not thought ever to make such a visit. But there
came letters, and there were rejoinders,--which were going on before
Mary's departure,--and at last it was determined that Miss Marrable
should go to Dunripple, and pay a visit to her cousin. But she did
not do this till long after Walter Marrable had left the place. She
had written to Mary soon after her arrival, and in this first letter
there had been no word about Walter; but in her second letter she
spoke very freely of Walter Marrable,--as the reader shall see.

Dunripple, 2nd July, 1868.

DEAR MARY,

I got your letter on Saturday, and cannot help wishing
that it had been written in better spirits. However, I do
not doubt but that it will all come right soon. I am quite
sure that the best thing you can do is to let Mr. Gilmore
name an early day. Of course you never intended that there
should be a long engagement. Such a thing, where there is
no possible reason for it, must be out of the question.
And it will be much better to take advantage of the fine
weather than to put it off till the winter has nearly
come. Fix some day in August or early in September. I am
sure you will be much happier married than you are single;
and he will be gratified, which is, I suppose, to count
for something.

I am very happy here, but yet I long to get home. At my
time of life, one must always be strange among strangers.
Nothing can be kinder than Sir Gregory, in his sort of
fashion. Gregory Marrable, the son, is, I fear, in a
bad way. He is unlike his father, and laughs at his own
ailments, but everybody in the house,--except perhaps Sir
Gregory,--knows that he is very ill. He never comes down
at all now, but lives in two rooms, which he has together
up-stairs. We go and see him every day, but he