erstanding, you may write to
me, and tell me what chance there is of Beauchamp.'

What chance of Beauchamp! The words made Phoebe's honest brow contract
as she stood by the chimney-piece, while her brother went out into the
hall. 'That's all he cares for,' she thought. 'Poor mamma! But, oh!
how unkind. I am sending him away without one kind wish, and she must be
good--so much better than I could have hoped!'

Out she ran, and as he paused to kiss her bright cheek, she whispered,
'Good-bye, Mervyn; good speed. I shall watch for your cover.'

She received another kiss for those words, and they had been an effort,
for those designs on Beauchamp weighed heavily on her, and the two tasks
that were left to her were not congenial. She did not know how to
welcome a strange sister, for whose sake the last of the Mervyns was
grudged her own inheritance, and still less did she feel disposed to
harass her mother with a new idea, which would involve her in
bewilderment and discussion. She could only hope that there would be
inspiration in Mervyn's blank cover, and suppress her fever for suspense.

Wednesday came--no cover, blank or unblank. Had he been taken with a fit
of diffidence, and been less precipitate than he intended? Womanhood
hoped so, and rather enjoyed the possibility of his being kept a little
in suspense. Or suppose he had forgotten his cover, and then should
think the absence of a letter her fault? Thursday--still no tidings.
Should she venture a letter to him? No; lovers were inexplicable people,
and after all, what could she say? Perhaps he was only waiting for an
opportunity, and if Cecily had been ungracious at the last meeting, she
might not afford one. Day after day wore on, and still the post-bag was
emptied in vain, and Phoebe's patience was kept on tenterhooks, till,
when a full fortnight had passed, she learnt through the servants that
Mr. Mervyn's wardrobe and valet, grooms and horses, had been sent for to
London.

So he had been refused, and could not bear to tell her so! And here she
was disappointed and pitying, and as vexed with Miss Raymond as if it had
not been no more than he deserved. But poor Mervyn! he had expected it
so little, and had been so really attached, that Phoebe was heartily
grieved for him, and longed to know how he bore it. Nay, with all the
danger of removal, the flatness of the balked excitement was personally
felt, and Phoebe would have been glad, in her mono