o a sardonic "He, he! Rouncy writes her letters," he
said; "every one of 'em; and since they've quarrelled, she don't know
how the deuce to get on. Miss Rouncy is an uncommon pretty hand, whereas
the old one makes dreadful work of the writing and spelling when
Bows ain't by. Rouncy's been settin' her copies lately--she writes a
beautiful hand, Rouncy does."

"I suppose you know it pretty well," said the Major archly upon which
Mr. Foker winked at him again.

"I would give a great deal to have a specimen of her hand-writing,"
continued Major Pendennis, "I dare say you could give me one."

"No, no, that would be too bad," Foker replied. "Perhaps I oughtn't to
have said as much as I have. Miss F.'s writin' ain't so very bad, I dare
say; only she got Miss R. to write the first letter, and has gone on
ever since. But you mark my word, that till they are friends again the
letters will stop."

"I hope they will never be reconciled," the Major said with great
sincerity; "and I can't tell you how delighted I am to have had the good
fortune of making your acquaintance. You must feel, my dear sir, as a
man of the world, how fatal to my nephew's prospects in life is this
step which he contemplates, and how eager we all must be to free him
from this absurd engagement."

"He has come out uncommon strong," said Mr. Foker; "I have seen his
verses; Rouncy copied 'em. And I said to myself when I saw 'em, 'Catch
me writin' verses to a woman,--that's all.'"

"He has made a fool of himself, as many a good fellow has before him.
How can we make him see his folly, and cure it? I am sure you will give
us what aid you can in extricating a generous young man from such a pair
of schemers as this father and daughter seem to be. Love on the lady's
side is out of the question."

"Love, indeed!" Foker said. "If Pen hadn't two thousand a year when he
came of age----"

"If Pen hadn't what?" cried out the Major in astonishment.

"Two thousand a year: hasn't he got two thousand a year?--the General
says he has."

"My dear friend," shrieked out the Major, with an eagerness which
this gentleman rarely showed, "thank you!--thank you!--I begin to see
now.--Two thousand a year! Why, his mother has but five hundred a year
in the world.--She is likely to live to eighty, and Arthur has not a
shilling but what she can allow him."

"What! he ain't rich then?" Foker asked.

"Upon my honour he has no more than what I say."

"And you ain't going to l