Miss Jessie, according to her own account, was hesitating, on receipt of my letter, between two alternatives--the one, of allowing herself to be buried six weeks in The Glen Tower; the other, of breaking the condition, giving up the money, and remaining magnanimously contented with nothing but a life-interest in her father's property.

At present she inclined decidedly toward giving up the money and escaping the clutches of "the three horrid old men;" but she would let me know again if she happened to change her mind.

And so, with best love, she would beg to remain always affectionately mine, as long as she was well out of my reach.
The summer passed, the autumn came, and I never heard from her again.
Under ordinary circumstances, this long silence might have made me feel a little uneasy.

But news reached me about this time from the Crimea that my son was wounded--not dangerously, thank God, but still severely enough to be la id up--and all my anxieties were now centered in that direction.

By the beginning of September, however, I got better accounts of him, and my mind was made easy enough to let me think of Jessie again.