reserve, not because I am prone to quarrel even with what
I call coyness; but because I know his nature so well, and
feel that he would not bear rebuffs of which many another
man would think nothing; that he would not bring himself
to ask again, perhaps even for a seventh time, as they
might do. And, if it be that by some frequent asking his
happiness and yours could be insured, would it not be
folly that such happiness should be marred by childish
disinclination on your part to tell the truth?

As I said before, if your heart be set against him, there
must be an end of it. I can understand that a girl so
young as you should fail to see the great merit of such a
man. I therefore write as I do, thinking it possible that
in this respect you may be willing to accept from my mouth
something as to the man which shall be regarded as truth.
It is on the inner man, on his nature and disposition,
that the happiness of a wife must depend. A more noble
nature, a more truthful spirit than his, I have never
met. He is one on whom in every phase of life you may
depend,--or I may depend,--as on a rock. He is one without
vacillation, always steady to his purpose, requiring from
himself in the way of duty and conduct infinitely more
than he demands from those around him. If ever there was
a man altogether manly, he is one. And yet no woman, no
angel, ever held a heart more tender within his bosom. See
him with children! Think of his words when he has spoken
to yourself! Remember the estimation in which those
friends hold him who know him best,--such as I and your
friend, Lady Albury, and Sir Harry, and his cousin Nina.
I could name many others, but these are those with whom
you have seen him most frequently. If you can love such a
man, do you not think that he would make you happy? And
if you cannot, must there not be something wrong in your
heart,--unless indeed it be already predisposed to some
one else? Think of all this, dear Ayala, and remember that
I am always

Your affectionate friend,

JULIA BALDONI.

Ayala's first feeling as she read the letter was a conviction that
her friend had altogether wasted her labour in writing it. Of what
use was it to tell her of the man's virtues,--to tell her that the
man's heart was as tender as an angel's, his truth as assured as a
god's, his courage that of a hero,--that he w