Ethel Churchill—it was very kind of her to write to me—says, that I shall find you equally altered and improved; so you see, dear Henrietta, I need to refresh my memory even of you. Come you must,—or, rather, you will; for I have already made all kinds of preparations for your arrival."
"Why," exclaimed Henrietta, "have I left it to him to ask me? why have I not proposed going to him? why have I allowed Lord Marchmont's trivial excuses for delay, to postpone a visit which would have made my uncle so happy? But I will go at once."
Again she began to read her letter, when, suddenly letting it fall, she turned pale. A terrible fear had entered into her mind: the handwriting was certainly more tremulous than usual. He was ill, and would not tell her so. At once her imagination conjured up a thousand shapes of suffering. She saw her uncle—sick, lonely, and pining for his child. She could not bear the picture; and, covering her face with her hands, as if to exclude it, began to weep bitterly.
