learned that all which Justice could do to repair the wrong inflicted had
been done. Here Lionel's words, though brief, were cordial, and almost
joyous; but then came a few sentences steeped in gloom. There was an
allusion, vague and delicate in itself, to the eventful conversation with
Waife in reference to Sophy--a sombre, solemn farewell conveyed to her
and to hope--a passionate prayer for her happiness--and then an abrupt
wrench, as it were, away from a subject too intolerably painful to
prolong--an intimation that he had succeeded in exchanging into a
regiment very shortly to be sent into active service; that he should set
out the next day to join that regiment in a distant part of the country;
and that he trusted, should his life be spared by war, that it would be
many years before he should revisit England. The sense of the letter was
the more affecting in what was concealed than in what was expressed.
Evidently Lionel desired to convey to Waife, and leave it to him to
inform Sophy, that she was henceforth to regard the writer as vanished
out of her existence--departed, as irrevocably as depart the Dead.

While Waife was reading, he had turned himself aside from Sophy; he had
risen--he had gone to the deep recess of the old mullioned window, half
screening himself beside the curtain. Noiselessly, Sophy followed; and
when he had closed the letter, she laid her hand on his arm, and said
very quietly: "Grandfather, may I read that letter?"

Waife was startled, and replied on the instant, "No, my dear."

"It is better that I should," said she, with the same quiet firmness; and
then seeing the distress in his face, she added, with her more accustomed
sweet docility, yet with a forlorn droop of the head: "But as you please,
grandfather."