t tell her how happy, how very happy I
really am, till she has first wished me joy.

I have, of course, told aunt Penelope. She, too, says
something about poverty. I tell her it is croaking. The
honest do not beg their bread; do they, Arthur? But in
spite of her croaking, she will be very happy to see you
on Monday, if it shall suit you to come. If so, let me
have one other little line. But I am so contented now,
that I shall hardly be more so even to have you here.

God bless you, my own, own, own dearest.

Ever yours with truest affection,

ADELA.

And I also hope that Adela's letter will not be considered
unmaidenly; but I have my fears. There will be those who will say
that it is sadly deficient in reserve. Ah! had she not been reserved
enough for the last four or five years? Reserve is beautiful in a
maiden if it be rightly timed. Sometimes one would fain have more of
it. But when the heart is full, and when it may speak out; when time,
and circumstances, and the world permit--then we should say that
honesty is better than reserve. Adela's letter was honest on the spur
of the moment. Her reserve had been the work of years.

Arthur, at any rate, was satisfied. Her letter seemed to him to be
the very perfection of words. Armed with that he would face his
mother, though she appeared armed from head to foot in the Stapledean
panoply. While he was reading his letter he was at breakfast with
them all; and when he had finished it for the second time, he handed
it across the table to his mother.

"Oh! I suppose so," was her only answer, as she gave it him back.

The curiosity of the girls was too great now for the composure of
their silent dignity. "It is from Adela," said Mary; "what does she
say?"

"You may read it," said Arthur, again handing the letter across the
table.

"Well, I do wish you joy," said Mary, "though there will be so very
little money."

Seeing that Arthur, since his father's death, had, in fact, supported
his mother and sisters out of his own income, this reception of his
news was rather hard upon him. And so he felt it.

"You will not have to share the hardships," he said, as he left the
room; "and so you need not complain."

There was nothing more said about it that morning; but in the
evening, when they were alone, he spoke to his sister again. "You
will write to her, Mary, I hope?"

"Yes, I will write to her," said Mary, half ashamed of herself