shall call in an hour and speak (may I not?) to Lady Anne Granard.
"Ever your affectionate and grateful
"Francis Glentworth."
Mr. Glentworth received his note while pacing up and down the library, where he had passed a night, given neither to study nor to sleep. He started when he saw the address—broke the seal, while the blood started from the firmly-compressed lip. He drew a deep breath; he was reassured by the shortness; till then he had not acknowledged, even to himself, how much he dreaded an acceptance. He read it, and, flinging himself into a chair, hid his face in his hands. "It is too late to repent!" exclaimed he, and wrote an answer. "Let me make her happy," muttered he, "and then it matters not." Francis Glentworth and Isabel Granard were both generous, high-minded, and disinterested; they were about to marry with the best intentions. Alas! best intentions are not the best things in the world to marry upon.
