is young, Luttrell; she has seen little of the world. You must
give her time. I know no man I would prefer to you as a brother;
but--give her time. Be satisfied with the engagement; do not let us
speak of marriage just yet."

"Not unless she wishes it," says the young man bravely, and perhaps a
little proudly.

"In a year," says John, still with his eyes on his beautiful sister,
and speaking with marked hesitation, as though waiting for her to make
some sign by which he shall know how to best forward her secret wishes;
"then we may begin to talk about it."

"Yes, then we may talk about it," echoes Molly, cheerfully.

"But a year!--it is a lifetime," says Luttrell, with some excitement,
turning his eyes, full of a mute desire for help, upon Letitia. And
when did Letitia ever fail any one?

"I certainly think it is too long," she says, truthfully and kindly.

"No," cries Molly, pettishly, "it shall be as John wishes. Why, it is
nothing! Think of all the long years to come afterward, when we shall
not be able to get rid of each other, no matter how earnestly we may
desire it; and then see how small in comparison is this one year."

Luttrell, who has grown a little pale, goes over to her and takes her
hand in both his. His face is grave, fuller of purpose than they have
ever seen it. To him the scene is a betrothal, almost a marriage.

"You will be true to me?" he says, with suppressed emotion. "Swear that
you will, before your brother."

"Of course I will," with a quick, nervous laugh. "Why should I be
otherwise? You frighten me with your solemn ways. Am I more to you than
I was yesterday? Why, how should I be untrue to you, even if I wished
it? I shall see no one from the day you leave until you come again."

At this moment the noise of the door-handle being turned makes him drop
her hand, and they all fall simultaneously into what they hope is an
easy attitude. And then Sarah appears upon the threshold with a letter
and a small packet between her first finger and thumb. She is a very
genteel girl, is Sarah, and would scorn to take a firm grasp of
anything.

"This 'ere is for you, sir," she says, delivering the packet to
Luttrell, who consigns it hastily to his coat-pocket; "and this for
you, Miss Molly," giving the letter. "The postman says, sir, as 'ow
they only come by the afternoon, but I am of the rooted opinion that he
forgot 'm this morning."

Thus Sarah, who is loquacious though trustworthy, and bea