"My DEAR ANNE,--

"I am not coming to stay in your neighbourhood as I had hoped. I
should have been very glad to have had a talk with you about Molly,
if it had been possible, for her dear father's sake. Indeed, I
think you are far from exaggerating the difficulties of the case.
You are very reluctant to take a house in London, and you say that
if you did take one and gave up all your home duties you would not
now have a circle of friends there who could be of any use to a
girl of her age. I feel that very likely you would be glad if my
daughter would undertake her, and you are quite right in thinking
that she would like a girl to take into the world. But I must be
frank with you, as I want to save you from pitfalls which I may be
more able to foresee than you can in your secluded home. My dear, I
know that dear old John died without a penny: why if he had had any
fortune as a young man--but, alas! he had none--is it possible
that, in a soldier's life, with, for a few years, a madly
extravagant wife to help him, he could conceivably have saved a
capital that can produce £3000 a year!

"No, my dear Anne, the money is from her mother, and I must tell
you that I've often wondered if that estimable lady is really dead
at all. Then, you know, that I always kept up with John, and that I
knew something about Sir David Bright. To conclude, Rose Bright is
my cousin by marriage, and we are all dumbfounded at finding that
she has been left £800 a year instead of twice as many thousands,
and that the fortune has gone to a lady named Madame Danterre. It
is so old a story that I don't think any one has read the
conclusion aright except myself, and _parole d'honneur_, no one
shall if I can help it. I am too fond of poor John's memory to want