on Tuesday last.

No. 2 said--Dear Sir, we shall have a small quiet party of social friends
at our humble board, next Tuesday evening, at an early tea, when I shall
wear the beautiful scarf which, with its accompanying delightful verses,
I shall ever, ever cherish: and papa bids me say how happy he will be if
you will join 'the feast of reason and the flow of soul' in our festive
little party, as I am sure will be your truly grateful Emily Fotheringay.

No. 3 was somewhat more confidential, and showed that matters had
proceeded rather far. You were odious yesterday night, the letter said.
Why did you not come to the stage-door? Papa could not escort me on
account of his eye; he had an accident, and fell down over a loose carpet
on the stair on Sunday night. I saw you looking at Miss Diggle all night;
and you were so enchanted with Lydia Languish you scarcely once looked
at Julia. I could have crushed Bingley, I was so angry. I play Ella
Rosenberg on Friday: will you come then? Miss Diggle performs--ever
your E. F.

These three letters Mr. Pen used to read at intervals, during the day and
night, and embrace with that delight and fervour which such beautiful
compositions surely warranted. A thousand times at least he had kissed
fondly the musky satin paper, made sacred to him by the hand of Emily
Fotheringay. This was all he had in return for his passion and flames,
his vows and protests, his rhymes and similes, his wakeful nights and
endless thoughts, his fondness, fears and folly. The young wiseacre had
pledged away his all for this: signed his name to endless promissory
notes, conferring his heart upon the bearer: bound himself for life, and
got back twopence as an equivalent. For Miss Costigan was a young lady of
such perfect good-conduct and self-command, that she never would have