ted, it is
all I ask.

But I shall say no more. He can plead better by word of mouth than I by
paper, I hope. Ever your devoted

PHILIP.

TO MISS BESSIE LINTON.

A week later, Bessie Linton, fair and young spite of her thirty years,
waited at the Applethorpe station in her pony-carriage for her cousin
and his friend. She was possessed by so many emotions that she hardly
knew whether she most wished or most dreaded seeing the visitors. That
she was herself deeply interested in George Hammond she did not pretend
to deny even to herself; yet just at the last she dreaded seeing him. It
seemed to bring everything so near.

The whistle sounded round the bend, and in another moment the dreaded,
hoped-for train arrived. There alighted from it a number of passengers,
but none that Bessie recognized at all. Presently there came toward her
a gentleman with full beard and moustache, holding out his hand and
exclaiming, "Cousin Bessie, don't you know me?"

"Why, Philip Aubrey! No, I _didn't_. Why, where--" and she hesitated a
half second--"where is my Philip gone?"

"He's here alive and hearty, and the same old scapegrace, I'm afraid."

Then, seeing the look of inquiry and suspense on her face, he added with
considerable embarrassment, "George didn't come just yet. I'll tell you
all about it when we get home."

She was forced to be satisfied, but a nameless feeling of "something"
made the drive a rather silent one, although each tried spasmodically to
start a conversation. Tea over, Philip drew Bessie out into the garden,
and sitting down in a rustic scat, said, "Bessie, come and sit down: I
want to talk to you." Simply, straightforwardly as of old, she came.

"Bessie dear," said Philip, "I have something to say, and don't know how
to say it. But I guess the only way is to tell the truth at once. There
is no such person as George Hammond."

Bessie's heart-blood stopped for what seemed half an hour, and then she
articulated slowly, "Then who wrote those letters, Philip?"

"_I_ did," he answered sadly.

She started away from him as if he had been a serpent. She walked up and
down like a caged animal. At last her scorn burst forth: "_You_, Philip
Aubrey! _you_! You have dared to laugh me to scorn, have you? You have
dared to presume that because I am what the world calls an 'old maid,' I
am a fit mark for the arrows of the would-be wits? Phi