So that her lot was indeed to be deplored.
At last a second letter came, and with trembling fingers, locked in her room, the forsaken lady tore the curiously bulky envelope apart.

Then, at the sight of the enclosure that had given it this shape, her heart lightened once more.
"A sprig of white heather!" she cried.

"Ah, he loves me still!" With eager eyes she next devoured the writing accompanying this token; and as the Baron's head happened to be clearer when he composed this second epistle, and his friend's hints peculiarly judicious, it conveyed so plausible an account of his proceedings, and contained so many expressions of his unaltered esteem, that his character was completely reinstated in her regard.
Having read every affectionate sentence thrice over, and given his exceedingly interesting statements of fact the attention they deserved, she once more took up the little bouquet and examined it more curiously and intently.

She even untied the ribbon, when, lo and behold! there fell a tiny and tightly folded twist of paper upon the floor.

Preparing herself for a delicious bit of sentiment, she tenderly unfolded and smoothed it out.
"Verses!" she exclaimed rapturously; but the next instant her pleasure gave place to a look of the extremest mystification.
"What does this mean ?" she gasped.
There was, in fact, some excuse for her perplexity, since the precise text of the enclosure ran thus: "TO LORD TULLIWUDDLE.
"O Chieftain, trample on this heath Which lies thy springing foot beneath! It can recover from thy tread, And once again uplift its head! But spare, O Chief, the tenderer plant, Because when trampled on, it can't! "EVA." Too confounded for coherent speculation, the Baroness continued to stare at this baffling effusion.