to accomplish this, they had left Greshamsbury for Barchester exactly as the postboy was leaving Silverbridge for Greshamsbury.
'I should like to wait for my letters,' Mr. Oriel had said, when the journey was being discussed.
'Nonsense,' Frank had answered. 'Who ever got a letter that was worth waiting for?' and so Mary was doomed to a week of misery.
When the post-bag arrived at the house on Monday morning, it was opened as usual by the squire himself at the breakfast-table. 'Here is a letter for Frank,' said he, 'posted in the village. You had better send it to him:' and he threw the letter across the table to Beatrice.
'It's from Mary,' said Beatrice, out loud, taking the letter up and examining the address. And having said so, she repented what she had done, as she looked first at her father and then at her mother.
A cloud came over the squire's brow as for a minute he went on turning over the letters and newspapers. 'Oh, from Mary Thorne, is it?' he said. 'Well, you had better send it to him.'
'Frank said, that if any letters came they were to be kept,' said his sister Sophy. 'He told me so particularly. I don't think he likes having letters sent after him.'
'You had better send that one,' said the squire.
'Mr. Oriel is to have all his letters addressed to Long's Hotel, Bond-street, and this one can very well be sent with them,' said Beatrice, who knew all about it, and intended herself to make a free use of the address.
'Yes, you had better send it,' said the squire; and then nothing further was said at the table. But Lady Arabella, though she said nothing, had not failed to mark what had passed. Had she asked for the letter before the squire, he would probably have taken possession of it himself; but as soon as she was alone with Beatrice, she did demand it. 'I shall be writing to Frank myself,' she said, 'and will send it to him.' And so Beatrice, with a heavy heart, gave it up.
The letter lay before Lady Arabella's eyes all that day, and many a wistful glance was cast at it. She turned it over and over, and much she desired to know its contents; but she did not dare to break the seal of her son's letter. All that day it lay upon her desk, and all the next, for she could hardly bring herself to part with it; but on the Wednesday it was sent—sent with these lines from herself:—
'Dearest, dearest Frank, I send you a letter which has come by the post from Mary Thorne. I do not know what it may contain; but before you correspond with her, pray, pray think of
