closed in rapidly, and even the cheerful fireside failed to bring back the smile to Ethel's lip, or the gladness to her eye. There was, however, one time to which she and Sir Jasper alike looked forward. The post came in twice a week; and the sound of the horn, though its arrival was always expected, and every minute of the hour before it came counted, while the breath was held for fear of losing a sound, yet not the less did Ethel's colour deepen to crimson, and her heart beat even to pain. Night after night, too, did she sink back with the sickness of disappointed hope. No letter came from Norbourne Courtenaye.
Sir Jasper was more fortunate: he also set two days apart in the week, he also counted minutes of the evenings when the post came in; but he was never disappointed—it always brought him a letter. Whatever might be the young countess's engagements, none prevented her from writing to her uncle; and for the sake of the beloved writer, the aged recluse took an interest in all the news of the day—in such light chronicles as the following epistle.
