Chapter XVI: Epistolary

[From Madame Leblanc to Captain Danton.]

Quebec, May 17, 18--.

Dear Sir:--I write to you in the utmost distress and
confusion of mind. I hardly know how to break to you the news it is
my painful duty to reveal, lest some blame should attach itself to
me or mine, where I assure you none is deserved. Your daughter Rose
has left us--run away; in fact, I believe, eloped. I have reason to
think she was married yesterday; but to whom I have not yet
discovered. I beg to assure you, Captain Danton, that neither I nor
any one in my house had the remotest idea of her intention; and we
are all in the greatest consternation since the discovery has been
made. I would not for worlds such a thing had happened under my
roof, and I earnestly trust you will not hold me to blame.

Six days ago, on the afternoon of the 11th, your daughter arrived
here. We were all delighted to see her, Virginie in particular;
for, hearing of her approaching marriage with M. La Touche, we were
afraid she might not come. We all noticed a change in her--her
manner different from what it used to be--a languor, an apathy to
all things--a general listlessness that nothing could arouse her
from. She, who used to be so full of life and spirits, was now the
quietest in the house, and seemed to like nothing so well as being
by herself and dreaming the hours away. On the evening of the third
day this lassitude left her. She grew restless and nervous--almost
feverishly so. Next morning this feverish restlessness grew worse.
She refused to leave the house in the afternoon to accompany my
daughter on a shopping expedition. Her plea was toothache, and
Virginie went alone. The early afternoon post brought her what I
believe she was waiting for--a letter. She ran up with it to her
own room, which she did not leave until dusk. I was standing in the
entrance-hall when she came down, dressed for a walk, and wearing a
veil over her face. I asked her where she was going. She answered
for a walk, it might help her toothache. An hour afterward Virginie
returned. Her first question was for Rose. I informed her she was
gone out.

"Then," exclaimed Virginie, "it must have been Rose that I met in
the next street, walking with a gentleman. I thought the dress and
figure were hers, but I could not see her face for a thick veil.
The gentleman was tall and dark, and very handsome."

Half an hour later, Rose came back. We teased her a little about
the gentleman; but she put it off quite indifferently, saying he
was an acquaintance she had encountered in the street, and that she
had promised to go with him next morning to call on a lady-friend
of hers, a Mrs. Major Forsyth. We thought no more about it; and
next morning, when the gentleman called in a carriage, Rose was
quite ready, and went away with him. It was then about eleven
o'clock, and she did not return until five in the afternoon. Her
face was flushed, her manner excited, and she broke away from
Virginie and ran up to her room. All the evening her manner was
most unaccountably altered, her spirits extravagantly high, and
colour like fever in her face. She and Virginie shared the same
room, and when they went upstairs for the night, she would not go
to bed.

"You can go," she said to Virginie; "I have a long letter to write,
and you must not talk to me, dear."

Virginie went to bed. She is a very sound sleeper, and rarely
wakes, when she lies down, until morning. She fell asleep, and
never awoke all night. It was morning when she opened her eyes. She
was alone. Rose was neither in the bed nor in the room.

Virginie thought nothing of it. She got up, dressed, came down to
breakfast, expecting to find Rose before her. Rose was not before
her--she was not in the house. We waited breakfast until ten,
anxiously looking for her; but she never came. None of the servants
had seen her, but that she had gone out very early was evident; for
the house-door was unlocked and unbolted, when the kitchen-girl
came down at six in the morning. We waited all the forenoon, but
she never came. Our anxiety trebly increased when we made the
discovery that she had taken her trunk with her. How she had got it
out of the house was the profoundest mystery. We questioned the
servants; but they all denied stoutly. Whether to believe them or
not I cannot tell, but I doubt the housemaid.

The early afternoon post brought Virginie a note. I inclose it. It
tells you all I can tell. I write immediately, distressed by what
has occurred, more than I can say. I earnestly trust the poor child
has not thrown herself away. I hope with all my heart it may not be
so bad as at first sight if seems. Believe me my dear sir, truly
sorry for what has occurred, and I trust you will acquit me of
blame.

With the deepest sympathy, I remain,

Yours, sincerely,
Mathilde Leblanc.

[Miss Rose Danton to Mlle. Virginie Leblanc. Inclosed in the preceding.]

Wednesday Night.

My Darling Virginie:--When you read this, we shall have
parted--perhaps forever. My pet, I am married! To-day, when
I drove away, it was not to call on Mrs. Major Forsyth, but be
married. Oh, my dearest, dearest Virginie, I am so happy, so
blessed--so--so--oh! I can't tell you of my unutterable joy! I am
going away to-night, in half an hour. I shall kiss you good-bye as
you sleep. In a day or two I leave Canada forever, to be happy,
beyond the power of words to describe, in another land. Adieu, my
pet. If we never meet, don't forget your happy, happy
Rose.

[Miss Grace Danton to Doctor Frank Danton.]

Danton Hall, May 21, 18--.

My Dear Frank:--Do you recollect your last words to me as you
left St. Croix: "Write to me, Grace. I think you will have news
to send me before long." Had you, as I had, a presentment of what
was to come? My worst forebodings are realized. Rose has eloped.
Reginald Stanford is a villain. They are married. There are no
positive proofs as yet, but I am morally certain of the fact. I
have long suspected that he admired that frivolous Rose more than
he had any right to do, but I hardly thought it would come to this.
Heaven forgive them, and Heaven pity Kate, who loved them both so
well! She knows nothing of the matter as yet. I dread the time when
the truth will be revealed.

The morning of the 19th brought Captain Danton a letter from
Quebec, in a strange hand. It came after breakfast, and I carried
it myself into his study. I returned to the dining-room before he
opened it, and sat down to work; but in about fifteen minutes the
Captain came in, his face flushed, his manner more agitated and
excited than I had ever seen it. "Read that," was all that he could
say, thrusting the open letter into my hand. No wonder he was
agitated. It was from Madam Leblanc, and contained the news that
Rose had made a clandestine marriage, and was gone, no one knew
where.

Inclosed there was a short and rapturous note from Rose herself,
saying that she had been married that day, and was blessed beyond
the power of words to describe, and was on the point of leaving
Canada forever. She did not give her new name. She said nothing of
her husband, but that she loved him passionately. There was but one
name mentioned in the letter, that of a Mrs. Major Forsyth, whom
she left home ostensibly to visit.

From the moment I read the letter, I had no doubt to whom she was
married. Three days after Rose's departure for Quebec, Mr. Stanford
left us for Montreal. He was only to be absent a week. The week has
nearly expired, and there is no news of him. I knew instantly, as I
have said, with whom Rose had run away; but as I looked up, I saw
no shadow of a suspicion of the truth in Captain Danton's face.

"What does it mean?" he asked, with a bewildered look. "I can't
understand it. Can you?"

There was no use in disguising the truth; sooner or later he must
find it out.

"I think I can," I answered. "I believe Rose left here for the very
purpose she has accomplished, and not to visit Virginie Leblanc."

"You believe that letter, then?"

"Yes: I fear it is too true."

"But, heavens above! What would she elope for? We were all willing
she should marry La Touche."

"I don't think it is with M. La Touche," I said, reluctantly. "I
wish it were. I am afraid it is worse than that."

He stood looking at me, waiting, too agitated to speak. I told him
the worst at once.

"I am afraid it is with Reginald Stanford."

"Grace," he said, looking utterly confounded, "what do you mean?"

I made him sit down, and told him what perhaps I should have told
him long ago, my suspicions of that young Englishman. I told him I
was certain Rose had been his daily visitor during those three
weeks' illness up the village; that she had been passionately in
love with him from the first, and that he was a villain and a
traitor. A thousand things, too slight to recapitulate, but all
tending to the same end, convinced me of it. He was changeful by
nature. Rose's pretty piquant beauty bewitched him; and this was
the end.

"I hope I may be mistaken," I said; "for Kate's sake I hope so, for
she loves him with a love of which he is totally unworthy; but, I
confess, I doubt it."

I cannot describe to you the anger of Captain Danton, and I pray I
may never witness the like again. When men like him, quiet and
good-natured by habit, do get into a passion, the passion is
terrible indeed.

"The villain!" he cried, through his clenched teeth. "The cruel
villain! I'll shoot him like a dog!"

I was frightened. I quail even now at the recollection, and the
dread of what may come. I tried to quiet him, but in vain; he shook
me off like a child.

"Let me, alone, Grace!" he said, passionately. "I shall never rest
until I have sent a bullet through his brain!"

It was then half-past eleven; the train for Montreal passed through
St. Croix at twelve. Captain Danton went out, and ordered round his
gig, in a tone that made the stable-boy stare. I followed him to
his room, and found him putting his pistols in his coat-pocket. I
asked him where he was going, almost afraid to speak to him, his
face was so changed.

"To Montreal first," was his answer; "to look for that matchless
scoundrel; afterwards to Quebec, to blow out his brains, and those
of my shameful daughter!"

I begged, I entreated, I cried. It was all useless. He would not
listen to me; but he grew quieter.

"Don't tell Kate," he said. "I won't see her; say I have gone upon
business. If I find Stanford in Montreal, I will come back. Rose
may go to perdition her own way. If I don't--" He paused, his face
turning livid. "If I don't, I'll send you a despatch to say I have
left for Quebec."

He ran down-stairs without saying good-bye, jumped into the gig,
and drove off. I was so agitated that I dared not go down stairs
when luncheon-hour came. Eeny came up immediately after, and asked
me if I was ill. I pleaded a headache as an excuse for remaining in
my room all day, for I dreaded meeting Kate. Those deep, clear eyes
of hers seem to have a way of reading one's very thoughts, and
seeing through all falsehoods. Eeny's next question was for her
father. I said he had gone to Montreal on sudden business, and I
did not know when he would return--probably soon.

She went down-stairs to tell Kate, and I kept my chamber till the
afternoon. I went down to dinner, calm once more. It was
unspeakably dull and dreary, we three alone, where a few days ago
we were so many. No one came all evening, and the hours wore away,
long, and lonely, and silent. We were all oppressed and dismal. I
hardly dared to look at Kate, who sat playing softly in the dim
piano-recess.

This morning brought me the dreaded despatch. Captain Danton had
gone to Quebec; Mr. Stanford was not in Montreal.

I cannot describe to you how I passed yesterday. I never was so
miserable in all my life. It went to my heart to see Kate so happy
and busy with the dressmakers, giving orders about those
wedding-garments she is never to wear. It was a day of unutterable
wretchedness, and the evening was as dull and dreary as its
predecessor. Father Francis came up for an hour, and his sharp eyes
detected the trouble in my face. I would have told him if Kate had
not been there; but it was impossible, and I had to prevaricate.

This morning has brought no news; the suspense is horrible. Heaven
help Kate! I can write no more.

Your affectionate sister,

Grace Danton

[Lieutenant R. R. Stanford to Major Lauderdale.]

Quebec, May 17.

Dear Lauderdale:--The deed is done, the game is up, the play
is played out--Reginald Reinecourt Stanford is a married man.

You have read, when a guileless little chap in roundabouts, "The
Children of the Abbey," and other tales of like kidney. They were
romantic and sentimental, weren't they? Well, old fellow, not one
of them was half so romantic or sentimental as this marriage of
mine. There were villains in them, too--Colonel Belgrave, and so
forth--black-hearted monsters, without one redeeming trait. I tell
you, Lauderdale, none of these unmitigated rascals were half so bad
as I am. Think of me at my worst, a scoundrel of the deepest dye,
and you will about hit the mark. My dear little, pretty little Rose
is not much better; but she is such a sweet little sinner, that--in
short, I don't want her to reform. I am in a state of indescribable
beatitude, of course--only two days wedded--and immersed in the
joys of _la lune de miel_. Forsyth--you know Forsyth, of
"Ours"--was my aider and abettor, accompanied by Mrs. F. He made a
runaway match himself, and is always on hand to help
fellow-sufferers; on the ground, I suppose, that misery loves
company.

To-morrow we sail in the Amphitrite for Southampton. It won't do to
linger, for my papa-in-law is a dead shot. When I see you, I'll
tell you all about it. Until then, adieu and _au revoir_.

Reginald Stanford.

[Mrs. Reginald Stanford to Grace Danton.]

Quebec, May 18.

Dear Mamma Grace:--I suppose, before this, you have heard
the awful news that my Darling Reginald and I got married. Wouldn't
I like to see you as you read this? Don't I know that virtuous
scowl of yours so well, my precious mamma-in-law? Oh, you dear old
prude, it's so nice to be married, and Reginald is an angel! I love
him so much, and I am so happy; I never was half so happy in my
life.

I suppose Madame Leblanc sent you the full, true, and particular
account of my going on. Poor old soul! What a rare fright she must
have got when she found out I was missing. And Virginie, too.
Virginie was so jealous to think I was going to be married before
her, as if I would ever have married that insipid Jules. How I wish
my darling Reginald had his fortune; but fortune or no fortune, I
love him with all my heart, and am going to be just as happy as the
day is long.

I dare-say Kate is furious, and saying all kinds of hard things
about me. It is not fair if she is. I could not help Reginald's
liking me better than her, and I should have died if I had not got
him. There! I feel very sorry for her, though; I know how I should
feel if I lost him, and I dare say she feels almost as bad. Let her
take Jules. Poor Jules, I expect he will break his heart, and I
shall be shocked and disappointed if he does not. Let her take him.
He is rich and good-looking; and all those lovely wedding-clothes
will not go to waste. Ah! how sorry I am to leave them behind; but
it can't be helped. We are off to-morrow for England. I shall not
feel safe until the ocean is between us and papa. I suppose papa is
very angry; but where is the use? As long as Reginald marries one
of his daughters, I should think the particular one would be
immaterial.

I am sorry I cannot be present at your wedding, Grace; I give you
_carte blanche_ to wear all the pretty things made for Mrs. Jules
La Touche, if they will fit you. Tell poor Jules, when he comes,
that I am sorry; but I loved Reginald so much that I could not help
it. Isn't he divinely handsome, Grace? If he knew I was writing to
you, he would send his love, so take it for granted.

I should like to write more, but I am going on board in an hour.
Please tell Kate not to break her heart. It's of no use.

Give my regard to that obliging brother of yours. I like him very
much. Perhaps I may write to you from England if you will not be
disagreeable, and will answer. I should like to hear the news from
Canada and Danton Hall. Rapturously thine,

Rose Stanford.

[Grace Danton to Dr. Danton.]

Danton Hall, May 30.

Dear Frank:--"Man proposes--" You know the proverb, which
holds good in the case of women too. I know my prolonged silence
must have surprised you; but I have been so worried and anxious, of
late, that writing has become an impossibility. Danton Hall has
become a _maison de deuil_--a house of mourning indeed. I look back
as people look back on some dim, delightful dream to the days that
are gone, and wonder if indeed we were so merry and gay. The
silence of the grave reigns here now. The laughter, the music--all
the merry sounds of a happy household--have fled forever. A convent
of ascetic nuns could not be stiller, nor the holy sisterhood more
grave and sombre. Let me begin at the beginning, and relate events
as they occurred, if I can.

The day after I wrote you last brought the first event, in the
shape of a letter from Rose to myself. A more thoroughly selfish
and heartless epistle could not have been penned. I always knew her
to be selfish, and frivolous, vain, and silly to the backbone--yea,
backbone and all; but still I had a sort of liking for her withal.
That letter effectually dispelled any lingering remains of that
weakness. It spoke of her marriage with Reginald Stanford in the
most shamelessly insolent and exultant tone. It alluded to her
sister and to poor Jules La Touche in a way that brought the
"bitter bad" blood of the old Dantons to my face. Oh, if I could
have but laid my hands on Mistress Rose at that moment, quiet as I
am, I think I would have made her ears tingle as they never tingled
before.

I said nothing of the letter. My greatest anxiety now was lest
Captain Danton and Mr. Stanford should meet. I was in a state of
feverish anxiety all day, which even Kate noticed. You know she
never liked me, and latterly her aversion has deepened, though
Heaven knows, without any cause on my part, and she avoided me as
much as she possibly could without discourtesy. She inquired,
however, if anything had happened--if I had bad news from her
father, and looked at me in a puzzled manner when I answered "No."
I could not look at her; I could hardly speak to her; somehow I
felt about as guilty concealing the truth as if I had been in the
vile plot that had destroyed her happiness.

Father Francis came up in the course of the day; and when he was
leaving, I called him into the library, and told him the truth. I
cannot tell you how shocked he was at Rose's perfidy, or how
distressed for Kate's sake. He agreed with me that it was best to
say nothing until Captain Danton's return.

He came that night. It was late--nearly eleven o'clock, and I and
Thomas were the only ones up. Thomas admitted him; and I shall
never forget how worn, and pale, and haggard he looked as he came
in.

"It was too late, Grace," were his first words. "They have gone."

"Thank Heaven!" I exclaimed. "Thank Heaven you have not met them,
and that there is no blood shed. Oh, believe me, it is better as it
is."

"Does Kate know?" he asked.

"Not yet. No one knows but Father Francis. He thought as I did,
that it was better to wait until you returned."

"My poor child! My poor Kate!" he said, in a broken voice, "who
will tell you this?"

He was so distressed that I knelt down beside him, and tried to
sooth and comfort him.

"Father Francis will," I said. "She venerates and esteems him more
highly than any other living being, and his influence over her is
greater. Let Father Francis tell her to-morrow."

Captain Danton agreed that that was the very best thing that could
be done, and soon after retired.

I went to my room, too, but not to sleep. I was too miserably
anxious about the morrow. The night was lovely--bright as day and
warm as midsummer. I sat by the window looking out, and saw Kate
walking up and down the tamarack avenue with that mysterious Mr.
Richards. They lingered there for over an hour, and then I heard
them coming softly upstairs, and going to their respective rooms.

Next morning after breakfast, Captain Danton rode down to the
village and had an interview with Father Francis. Two hours after,
they returned to Danton Hall together, both looking pale and ill at
ease. Kate and I were in the drawing-room--she practising a new
song, I sewing. We both rose at their entrance--she gayly; I with
my heart beating thick and fast.

"I am glad the beauty of the day tempted you out, Father Francis,"
she said. "I wish our wanderers would come back. Danton Hall has
been as gloomy as an old bastille lately."

I don't know what Father Francis said. I know he looked as though
the errand he had come to fulfil were unspeakably distasteful to
him.

"Reginald ought to be home to-day," Kate said, walking to the
window, "and Rose next week. It seems like a century since they
went away."

I could wait for no more--I hurried out of the room--crying, I am
afraid. Before I could go upstairs, Captain Danton joined me in the
hall.

"Don't go," he said, hoarsely; "wait here. You may be wanted."

My heart seemed to stand still in vague apprehension of--I hardly
know what. We stood there together waiting, as the few friends who
loved the ill-fated Scottish Queen so well, may have stood when she
laid her head on the block. I looked at that closed door with a
mute terror of what was passing within--every nerve strained to
hear the poor tortured girl's cry of anguish. No such cry ever
came. We waited ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, half an hour, an
hour, before that closed door opened. We shrank away, but it was
only Father Francis, very pale and sad. Our eyes asked the question
our tongues would not utter.

"She knows all," he said, in a tremulous voice; "she has taken it
very quietly--too quietly. She has alarmed me--that unnatural calm
is more distressing than the wildest outburst of weeping."

"Shall we go to her?" asked her father.

"I think not--I think she is better alone. Don't disturb her
to-day. I will come up again this evening."

"What did she say?" I asked.

"Very little. She seemed stunned, as people are stunned by a sudden
blow. Don't linger here; she will probably be going up to her room,
and may not like to think you are watching her."

Father Francis went away. Captain Danton retired to his study. I
remained in the recess, which you know is opposite the
drawing-room, with the door ajar. I wished to prevent Eeny or any
of the servants from disturbing her by suddenly entering. About an
hour after, the door opened, and she came out and went slowly
upstairs. I caught a glimpse of her face as she passed, and it had
turned to the pallor of death. I heard her enter the room and lock
the door, and I believe I sat and cried all the morning.

She did not come down all day. I called in Eeny, and told her what
had happened, and shocked the poor child as she was never shocked
before. At dinner-time I sent her upstairs, to see if Kate would
not take some refreshment. Her knocking and calling remained
unanswered. She left in despair, and Kate never came down.

Another sleepless night--another anxious morning. About eight
o'clock I heard Kate's bell ring, and Eunice go upstairs. Presently
the girl ran down and entered the room where I was.

"If you please, Miss Grace, Miss Kate wants you," said Eunice, with
a scared face; "and oh, Miss, I think she's ill, she do look so
bad!"

Wanted me! I dropped the silver I was holding, in sheer affright.
What could she want of me? I went upstairs, my heart almost choking
me with its rapid throbbing, and rapped at the door.

She opened it herself. Well might Eunice think her ill. One night
had wrought such change as I never thought a night could work
before. She had evidently never lain down. She wore the dress of
yesterday, and I could see the bed in the inner room undisturbed.
Her face was so awfully corpse-like, her eyes so haggard and
sunken, her beauty so mysteriously gone, that I shrank before her
as if it had been the spectre of the bright, beautiful, radiant
Kate Danton. She leaned against the low mantelpiece, and motioned
me forward with a cold, fixed look.

"You are aware," she said, in a hard, icy voice--oh so unlike the
sweet tones of only yesterday--"what Father Francis came here
yesterday to say. You and my father might have told me sooner; but
I blame nobody. What I want to say is this: From this hour I never
wish to hear from anyone the slightest allusion to the past; I
never want to hear the names of those who are gone. I desire you to
tell this to my father and sister. Your influence over them is
greater than mine."

I bowed assent without looking up; I could feel the icy stare with
which she was regarding me, without lifting my eyes.

"Father Francis mentioned a letter that R----"; she hesitated for a
moment, and finally said--"that she sent you. Will you let me see
it?"

That cruel, heartless, insulting letter! I looked up imploringly,
with clasped hands.

"Pray don't," I said. "Oh, pray don't ask me! It is unworthy of
notice--it will only hurt you more deeply still."

She held out her hand steadily.

"Will you let me see it?"

What could I do? I took the letter from my pocket, bitterly
regretting that I had not destroyed it, and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

She walked to the window, and with her back to me read it
through--read it more than once, I should judge, by the length of
time it took her. When she faced me again, there was no sign of
change in her face.

"Is this letter of any use to you? Do you want it?"

"No! I only wish I had destroyed it long ago!"

"Then, with your permission, I will keep it."

"You!" I cried in consternation. "What can you want with that?"

A strange sort of look passed across her face, darkening it, and
she held it tightly in her grasp.

"I want to keep it for a very good reason," she said, between her
teeth; "if I ever forget the good turn Rose Danton has done me,
this letter will serve to remind me of it."

I was so frightened by her look, and tone, and words, that I could
not speak. She saw it, and grew composed again instantly.

"I need not detain you any longer," she said, looking at her watch.
"I have no more to say. You can tell my father and sister what I
have told you. I will go down to breakfast, and I am much obliged
to you."

She turned from me and went back to the window. I left the room
deeply distressed, and sought the dining-room, where I found the
Captain and Eeny. I related the whole interview, and impressed upon
them the necessity of obeying her. The breakfast-bell rang while we
were talking, and she came in.

Both Eeny and her father were as much shocked as I had been by the
haggard change in her; but neither spoke of it to her. We tried to
be at our ease during breakfast, and to talk naturally; but the
effort was a miserable failure. She never spoke, except when
directly addressed, and ate nothing. She sat down to the piano, as
usual, after breakfast, and practised steadily for two hours. Then
she took her hat and a book, and went out to the garden to read. At
luncheon-time she returned, with no better appetite, and after that
went up to Mr. Richards' room. She stayed with him two or three
hours, and then sat down to her embroidery-frame, still cold, and
impassionate, and silent. Father Francis came up in the evening;
but she was cold and unsocial with him as with the rest of us. So
that first day ended, and so every day has gone on since. What she
suffers, she suffers in solitude and silence; only her worn face,
haggard cheeks, and hollow eyes tell. She goes through the usual
routine of life with treadmill regularity, and is growing as thin
as a shadow. She neither eats, nor sleeps, nor complains; and she
is killing herself by inches. We are worried to-death about her;
and yet we are afraid to say one word in her hearing. Come to us,
Frank; you are a physician, and though you cannot "minister to a
mind diseased," you can at least tell us what will help her failing
body. Your presence will do Captain Danton good, too; for I never
saw him so miserable! We are all most unhappy, and any addition to
our family circle will be for the better. We do not go out; we have
few visitors; and the place is as lonely as a tomb. The gossip and
scandal have spread like wildfire; the story is in everybody's
mouth; even in the newspapers. Heaven forbid it should come to
Kate's ears! This stony calm of hers is not to be trusted. It
frightens me far more than any hysterical burst of sorrow. She has
evidently some deep purpose in her mind--I am afraid to think it
may be of revenge. Come to us, brother, and try if you can help us
in our trouble.

Your affectionate sister,
Grace.