and permitted her to write to her father.  Her letter was a most proper one; combining a dutiful regret for leaving her home, with the hope that her choice had been such as to excuse her rashness, or, at least, palliate her fault.  It went to say, that her father’s acknowledgment of her, was all she needed or cared for, to complete her happiness, and asking for his permission to seek it in person.  This was the substance of the letter, which upon the whole, satisfied me, and I waited anxiously for the reply.  At the end of five days the answer arrived.  It was thus:—­

     “’Dear Mary,

“’You have chosen your own path in life, and having done so, I have neither the right nor inclination to interfere with your decision; I shall neither receive you, nor the person you have made your husband; and to prevent any further disappointment, inform you that, as I leave this to-morrow, any future letters you might think proper to address, will not reach me.

                              “’Yours very faithful,
                                        C. Kamworth, Hydrabad Cottage.’

“This was a tremendous coup, and not in the least anticipated by either of us; upon me the effect was stunning, knowing, as I did, that our fast-diminishing finances were nearly expended.  Mary on the other hand, who neither knew nor thought of the exchequer, rallied at once from her depression, and after a hearty fit of crying, dried her eyes, and putting her arm round my neck, said: 

“’Well, Jack, I must only love you the more, since papa will not share any of my affection.’

“‘I wish he would his purse though,’ muttered I, as I pressed her in my arms, and strove to seem perfectly happy.

“I shall not prolong my story by dwelling upon the agitation this letter cost me; however, I had yet a hundred pounds left, and an aunt in Harley-street, with whom I had always been a favourite.  This thought, the only rallying one I possessed, saved me for the time; and as fretting was never my forte, I never let Mary perceive that any thing had gone wrong, and managed so well in this respect, that my good spirits raised her’s, and we set out for London one fine sunshiny morning, as happy a looking couple as ever travelled the north road.

“When we arrived at the ‘Clarendon,’ my first care was to get into a cab, and drive to Harley-street.  I rung the bell; and not waiting to ask if my aunt was at home, I dashed up stairs to the drawing-room; in I bolted, and instead of the precise old Lady Lilford, sitting at her embroidery, with her fat poodle beside her, beheld a strapping looking fellow, with a black moustache, making fierce love to a young lady on a sofa beside him.

“‘Why, how is this—­I really—­there must be some mistake here.’  In my heart I knew that such doings in my good aunt’s dwelling were impossible.

“‘I should suspect there is, sir,’ drawled out he of the moustache, as he took a very cool survey of me, through his glass.