Molly took the note, but, before she could open it, her father said—“That’s all, my dear; you needn’t read it. Give it to me. Tell those who sent you, Bethia, that all letters for Miss Molly must pass through my hands. Now be off with you, goosey, and go back to where you came from.”

“Papa, I shall make you tell me who my correspondent is.”

“We’ll see about that, by-and-by.”

She went a little reluctantly, with ungratified curiosity, upstairs to Miss Eyre, who was still her daily companion, if not her governess. He turned into the empty dining-room, shut the door, broke the seal of the note, and began to read it. It was a flaming love-letter from Mr. Coxe; who professed himself unable to go on seeing her day after day without speaking to her of the passion she had inspired—an “eternal passion,” he called it; on reading which Mr. Gibson laughed a little. Would she not look kindly at him? would she not think of him whose only thought was of her? and so on, with a very proper admixture of violent compliments to her beauty. She was fair, not pale; her eyes were loadstars, her dimples marks of Cupid’s finger, &c.

Mr. Gibson finished reading it; and began to think about it in his own mind. “Who would have thought the lad had been so poetical? but, to be sure, there’s a ‘Shakespeare’ in the surgery-library: I’ll take it away and put ‘Johnson’s Dictionary’ instead. One comfort is the conviction of her perfect innocence—ignorance, I should rather say—for it’s easy to see it’s the first ‘confession of his love,’ as he calls it. But it’s an awful worry—to begin with lovers so early. Why, she’s only just seventeen—not seventeen, indeed, till July; not for six weeks yet. Sixteen and three-quarters! Why, she’s quite a baby. To be sure—poor Jeanie was not so old, and how I did love her!” (Mrs. Gibson’s name was Mary; so he must have been referring to some one else.) Then his thoughts wandered back to other days, though he still held the open note in his hand. By-and-by his eyes fell upon it again, and his mind came back to bear upon the present time. “I’ll not be hard upon him. I’ll give him a hint; he’s quite sharp enough to take it. Poor laddie! if I send him away, which would be the wisest course, I do believe he’s got no home to go to.”

After a little more consideration in the same strain, Mr. Gibson went and sat down at the writing-table and wrote the following formula:—

Master Coxe.

(“That ‘master’ will touch him to the quick,” said Mr. Gibson to himself as he wrote the word.)

R. Verecundiæ i.

Fidelitatis Domesticæ i.

Reticentiæ gr. iij.

M. Capiat hanc dosim ter die in aquâ purâ.

R. Gibson, Ch.

Mr. Gibson smiled a little sadly as he re-read his words. “Poor Jeanie,” he said aloud. And then he chose out an envelope, enclosed the fervid love-letter, and the above prescription; sealed it with his own sharply-cut seal-ring, “R. G.,” in old English letters, and then paused over the address.

“He’ll not like Master Coxe outside; no need to put him to unnecessary shame.” So the direction on the envelope was—

Edward Coxe, Esq.