August 7.—­A supplemental letter from Caroline, answering, by anticipation, some of the aforesaid queries.  She tells me that ‘Charles,’ though he makes Versailles his present home, is by no means bound by his profession to continue there; that he will live just where she wishes, provided it be not too far from some centre of thought, art, and civilization.  My mother and herself both think that the marriage should not take place till next year.  He exhibits landscapes and canal scenery every year, she says; so I suppose he is popular, and that his income is sufficient to keep them in comfort.  If not, I do not see why my father could not settle something more on them than he had intended, and diminish by a little what he had proposed for me, whilst it was imagined that I should be the first to stand in need of such.

‘Of engaging manner, attractive appearance, and virtuous character,’ is the reply I receive from her in answer to my request for a personal description.  That is vague enough, and I would rather have had one definite fact of complexion, voice, deed, or opinion.  But of course she has no eye now for material qualities; she cannot see him as he is.  She sees him irradiated with glories such as never appertained and never will appertain to any man, foreign, English, or Colonial.  To think that Caroline, two years my junior, and so childlike as to be five years my junior in nature, should be engaged to be married before me.  But that is what happens in families more often than we are apt to remember.

August 16.—­Interesting news to-day.  Charles, she says, has pleaded that their marriage may just as well be this year as next; and he seems to have nearly converted my mother to the same way of thinking.  I do not myself see any reason for delay, beyond the standing one of my father having as yet had no opportunity of forming an opinion upon the man, the time, or anything.  However, he takes his lot very quietly, and they are coming home to talk the question over with us; Caroline having decided not to make any positive arrangements for this change of state till she has seen me.  Subject to my own and my father’s approval, she says, they are inclined to settle the date of the wedding for November, three months from the present time, that it shall take place here in the village, that I, of course, shall be bridesmaid, and many other particulars.  She draws an artless picture of the probable effect upon the minds of the villagers of this romantic performance in the chancel of our old church, in which she is to be chief actor—­the foreign gentleman dropping down like a god from the skies, picking her up, and triumphantly carrying her off.  Her only grief will be separation from me, but this is to be assuaged by my going and staying with her for long months at a time.  This simple prattle is very sweet to me, my dear sister, but I cannot help feeling sad at the occasion of it.  In the nature of things it is obvious that I shall never be to you again what I hitherto have been:  your guide, counsellor, and most familiar friend.