In a
postscript he referred to having just read an account of a visit from
their Majesties King George III. and Queen Charlotte to Somerset House. They had taken their eldest son, George, Prince of Wales, with them to
see the pictures. It is reported that the young prince was so enamoured
of the portrait entitled "The Landlord's Daughter," that he cried when
they took him away, and said that he wanted her for his nurse. His
Majesty, ever indulgent towards his children, suggested that to discover
the original of the portrait would not be impossible, in which case----. But here his royal spouse interposed, and with a vicious tap at her
snuff-box declared she would never allow such a face in _her_
household--not _she_. So the King of England caved in. Now, our antiquary affected no secrecy with regard to this particular
letter. There was no reason for it. On the contrary, it treated of a
public event which, in all probability, the members of the club would
read for themselves in the papers, so calling our host and hostess as
well as their daughter together, he began thus in the presence of all:

"You remember Mr. McGuilp, Jack?" "Ay, sir, sure enough," responded our host. "I hope he is very well." "I believe so, Jack," said Oldstone. "Now listen to this, all of you." Here he read the letter aloud, from beginning to end, adding, at its
conclusion, on his own account, "There, I knew my boy had it in him. I
saw it from the first, as soon as I set eyes on the portrait he painted
of our Helen." "Never blush, girl!" ventured Mr. Parnassus, but a stern look from Mr.
Oldstone checked further banter. "Well, well, well!" muttered our landlord. "To think that _our_ daughter
should have her portrait exhibited at the Royal Academy. That the Royal
family should see it, and, moreover, that it should have been bought by
a peer of the realm, and paid for money down. Why! it passes belief. Don't it Molly?" Our hostess thus appealed to by her spouse, admitted
that it _did_ seem strange, and suggested that perhaps all that got
into the papers might not be true. The suggestion was instantly howled
down. Cries of "Yes, yes, every word of it," from Mr. Crucible. "Especially that part where the Queen wouldn't have such a face about
her at any price," chimed in Professor Cyanite. "Just like the old cat, jealous of her husband," added Mr. Blackdeed. "Exactly so," agreed Dr. Bleedem. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, a truce to this," now interrupted Mr. Oldstone. "I propose that we meet together this evening at eight o'clock, over a
steaming bowl of rum punch, such as our good host here understands so
well how to brew, and that we drink to the health of our artist friend,
with a three times three." This proposition was unanimously applauded,
and subsequently carried out. We much fear that on this occasion our
worthy chairman was again carried away rather too much by his--emotion. The next morning our antiquary came down late for breakfast, rather
muddled in the upper regions, with, moreover, several sharp twinges of
gout, which reminded him that he was not so young as he used to be. His
coffee had got cold, and he had been left to finish his breakfast alone,
all the other members having been drawn away to their several
avocations. "Do you want anything, sir?" asked Helen, appearing at the door. "Well, yes, my girl," answered Oldstone. "I want you to sit down here,
and keep me company." "I can't stay for long, sir," replied Helen. "Mother is sure to be
calling me." "No matter. Wait till she calls. Now, Helen, tell me, what do you think
of that letter I read out to you yesterday--eh?" For answer Helen rubbed her hands together for joy, and flushed all over
her face. Then clasping her hands upon her breast, and looking upwards,
muttered as if unconscious of anyone's presence, "I _knew_, I knew he
loved me!" "Yes, I am afraid he does, you dangerous young puss," observed Oldstone. "Too much so for his peace of mind, poor boy!" "Perhaps, but not more than _I_ love _him_. _That_ were impossible." "And you're not afraid of confessing as much to _me_, you brazen hussy?" demanded the old man, playfully chucking her under the chin. "To _you_, you know I am not," replied the girl. "To you, sir, I feel I
could, nay, I _must_, tell everything, and oh! it _is_ such a comfort to
have a real true friend from whom one need hide nothing!" "Well, well, my dear," said Oldstone, "I am sure I have always wished to
be your true friend, but whether I am doing right in encouraging you in
a passion which cannot end wisely----"

"It need never end," interrupted Helen. "I will love him eternally, even
if he should cease to love _me_." "You would!" exclaimed the antiquary with surprise, looking at her
curiously. "Yes, sir, I would. What of that?" "But if he could not marry you," rejoined her counsellor. "Didn't I tell you that the thought of marriage never entered my head,"
persisted the girl. "You did, my child, but it won't do in this world," and the old man
shook his head. "What! can I not love the man of my choice--especially if I know that he
loves me? Who will prevent me loving him, thinking of him, praying for
him, _dying_ for him, if need be? Who shall tear his image from my
heart, through whatever trials I may have to pass for _his_ sake?" "Helen, you are a noble girl?" cried our antiquary with enthusiasm. I
have no more arguments to use. I wish there were a few more like you in
the world. But hark ye, my child, there are others who have felt like
yourself for a time--but how long has it lasted? "The greater part of your sex, I fear, find it easy to overthrow an old
love for a new one. Then follow other new ones in succession, till they
end perhaps in marrying someone they don't love, and can't love; all for
wealth, title, or position." "You surely don't think _I_ could be so base, Mr. Oldstone," cried the
girl, recoiling in horror. "No, my dear. That is the very last thing I should believe of _you_,"
replied her friend. "I am glad of that," said the girl. "Helen!" cried the voice of Dame Hearty, outside; "Where are you?" "Here, mother," answered her daughter. "I was only having a word with
Mr. Oldstone," and she hurried away, leaving the antiquary alone with
his writing materials. The breakfast having been cleared away, Oldstone drew his chair up to
the table and proceeded to pen a reply to his young protégé. When the
letter was concluded, our antiquary reperused it, carefully dotting each
_i_ and crossing each _t_, until he found no more to correct. If our reader is not more scrupulous than we are ourselves, he will
join us, in imagination, in an act not generally considered
respectable--viz., that of playing the spy on the old man, by peering
over his shoulder, and reading what he has written, before he folds it
up, seals it, and sends it to the post.