"It is quite nice to see you once more!" she exclaimed, with a sweet smile, after they had exchanged greetings. "Colonel Ormonde will be delighted to hear of you. I wish you could come down for a few days' hunting. Do give me your address, and Duke will write to you."

"There is my address," he said, taking out his card case and giving her a card; "but I fear there is little chance of my getting out of town till long after the hunting is over."

"Oh, you must try. At all events, come and see me. I am at Thorne's Hotel, Dover Street, and almost always at home about five. But I leave town next week."

Here the hostess sailed up, and touching Errington's arm, said "Sir Arthur Haynes, the great authority on international law, you know, wants to be introduced to you, Mr. Errington."

Mrs. Ormonde took the opportunity of saying good-night, and Katherine took farewell of Errington with a bow.

"Twenty-four, Sycamore Court Temple. What a come-down for him!" said Mrs. Ormonde, looking at the card she held, when they reached the cloak-room.

"He seems cheerful enough," said Katherine, irritated at the tone in which the observation was made; "and I thought the Temple was rather a smart place to live in."

"I am sure I don't know. Come, it must be late. What a stupid party! How cross De Burgh looks! I am sure he has a horrid temper."

In the hall Captain Darrell and De Burgh awaited them. The latter was too angry to speak. He handed Katherine into the carriage, and uttering a brief good-night, stepped back to make way for Captain Darrell, who expressed his pleasure at having met Mrs. Ormonde, and begged to be allowed to call next day.

On the whole, Katherine felt comforted by the assurance of Errington's friendly feeling toward her. How cruel it was to be obliged thus to reject his kindly advances! But it was wiser. If she met him often, what would become of her determination to steel her heart against the extraordinary feeling he had awakened? Besides, it could only be the wonderful patient benevolence of his nature which made him take any notice of her. In his own mind contempt could be the only feeling she awakened. No; the less she saw of him, the better for her.

By the time De Burgh called to escort Katherine and Mrs. Ormonde (who had dined with her) to the theatre he had conquered the extreme, though unreasonable, annoyance which had seized him on finding Errington and Katherine in apparently confidential conversation. He exerted himself therefore to be an agreeable host with success.

A play was the amusement of all others which delighted Katherine and drew her out of herself. De Burgh was diverted and Mrs. Ormonde half ashamed of the profound interest, the entire attention, with which she listened to the dialogue and awaited the denouement.

"I should have thought you had seen too much good acting abroad to be so delighted with this," said Mrs. Ormonde.

"But this is excellent, and the style is so new I have to thank you, Mr. De Burgh, for a delightful evening."

"The same to you," he returned. "Seeing you enjoy it so much woke me up to the merits of the thing."

The supper was bright and lively. Three men besides himself, and a cousin, a pretty, chatty woman of the world, completed De Burgh's party. There was plenty of laughing and chaffing. Katherine felt seized by a feverish desire to shake off dull care, to forget the past, to be as other women were. There was no reason why she should not. So she laughed and talked with unusual animation, and treated her host with kindly courtesy, that set his deep eyes aglow with hope and pleasure.

"It is a great advantage to be rich," said Mrs. Ormonde, reflectively, as she leaned comfortably in the corner of the carriage which conveyed her and her sister-in-law home. She was always a little nettled when she found how completely Katherine had effaced herself from De Burgh's fickle mind. She had been highly pleased with the idea of having her husband's distinguished relative for a virtuous and despairing adorer, and his desertion had mortified her considerably.

"Yes, money is certainly a great help," returned Katherine, scarce heeding what she said.

"It certainly has been to you, Katie. Don't think me disagreeable for suggesting it, but do you suppose De Burgh would show you all this devotion if you were to lose your money?"

"Oh no! He could not afford it. He told me he must marry a rich woman."

"Did he, really? It is just like him. What audacity! I wonder you ever spoke to him again. Then you are going in for rank, Katherine?"

"How can you tell? I don't know myself. Good-night. I shall tell you whenever I know my own mind."

"She is as close as wax, with all her frankness," thought Mrs. Ormonde as she went up to her room, after taking an affectionate leave of her sister-in-law.

The boys at school, Katherine found time hung somewhat heavily on her hands—a condition of things only too favorable to thought and visions of what "might have been." So, with the earnest hope of finding the exhilarations which might lead, through forgetfulness, to the happiness she so eagerly craved, Katherine accepted almost all the invitations which were soon showered upon her. At the houses of acquaintances she had made abroad she made numerous new ones, who were quite ready to fete, the handsome, sweet-voiced, pleasant-mannered heiress, who seemed to think so little about herself.

"Just the creature to be imposed upon, my dear!" as each mother whispered to the one next her, thinking, of course, of the other's son.

But her most satisfactory hours were those spent with Rachel, when they talked of the business, and often branched off to more abstract subjects. To the past they never alluded. Katherine was glad to see that the dead, hopeless expression of Rachel Trant's eyes had changed, yet not altogether for good. A certain degree of alertness had brightened them, but with it had come a hard, steady look, as though the spirit within had a special work to do, and was steeled and "straitened till it be accomplished."

"You are quite a clever accountant, Rachel," said Katherine, one afternoon in early April, after they had gone through the books together. "You have been established nearly five months, and you have paid expenses and a trifle over."

"It is not bad. Then, you see, the warehouses will give me credit for the next orders, three months' credit, and my orders are increasing. I am sure it is of great importance to have materials for customers to choose from. Ladies like to be saved the trouble of shopping, and I can give a dress at a more moderate rate, if I provide everything, than they can buy it piecemeal. I hope to double the business this season, and pay you a good percentage. Even on credit I can venture to order a fair supply of goods."

"Don't try credit yet, Rachel," said Katherine, earnestly. "I can give you a check now, and after this you can stand alone."

"Are you quite sure you can do this without inconvenience?" asked Rachel. "If you can, I will accept it. I begin to feel sure I shall be able to develop a good business and what will prove valuable property to you. It is an ambition that has quite filled my heart, and in devoting myself to it I have found the first relief from despair—a despair that possessed my soul whenever you were out of my sight. When I am not thinking of gowns and garnitures, I am adding up all the money you have sunk in this adventure, and planning how it may ultimately pay you six per cent. over and above expenses. It does not sound a very heroic style of gratitude, but it is practical, and I believe feasible."

"You are intensely real," said Katherine, "and I believe you will be successful."

After discussing a few more points connected with the undertaking they parted, and before Katherine dressed for dinner she wrote and despatched the promised check.

De Burgh had throughout this period conducted himself with prudence and discretion. He often called about tea-time, and frequently managed to meet Katherine in the evening, but he carefully maintained a frank, friendly tone, even when expressing in his natural brusque way his admiration of herself or her dress. He talked pleasantly to Miss Payne, and subscribed to many of Bertie's charities. Katherine was getting quite used to him, though they disagreed and argued a good deal. She sometimes tried to persuade herself that De Burgh had given up his original pretentions and would be satisfied with platonics. But her inner consciousness rejected the theory. Still, De Burgh came to be recognized as a favored suitor by society, and the "mothers, the cousins, and the aunts" of eligible young men shook their heads over the mistake she was making.

Now, after mature consideration, Katherine determined to make the will she had so long postponed, and bequeath all she possessed to Errington. It was rather a formidable undertaking to announce this intention to Mr. Newton, who would be sure to be surprised and interrogative, but she would do it. Having, therefore, made an appointment with him, she screwed up her courage and set out, accompanied by Miss Payne, who had been laid up with a cold, and was venturing out for the first time. She took advantage of Katherine's brougham to have a drive. The morning was very fine, and they started early, early enough to allow Miss Payne to leave the carriage and walk a little in the sun on "the Ladies' Mile."

As they proceeded slowly along, a well-appointed phaeton and pair of fine steppers passed them. It was occupied by two gentlemen, one old, gray, bent, and closely wrapped up; the other vigorous, dark, erect, held the reins. He lifted his hat as he passed Katherine and her companion with a swift, pleased smile.

"Who are those women?" asked the old gentleman, in a thick growl.

"Miss Liddell and her companion."

"By George! she looks like a gentlewoman. Turn, and let us pass them again."

De Burgh obeyed, and slackened speed as he went by. At the sound of the horses' tramp Katherine turned her head and gave De Burgh a bright smile and gracious bow.

"She is wonderfully good-looking for an heiress," remarked Lord de Burgh, who was, of course, the wrapped-up old gentleman. "I should say something for you if you could show such a woman with sixty or seventy thousand behind her as your wife. Why don't you go in and win? Don't let the grass grow under your feet."

"It is easier said than done. Miss Liddell is not an ordinary sort of young lady; she is not to be hurried. But I do not despair, by any means, of winning her yet. If I press my suit too soon, I may lose my chance. Trust me, it won't be my fault if I fail."

"I see you are in earnest," said the old man, "and I believe you'll win."

De Burgh nodded, and whipped up his horses.

"That must be the old lord," said Miss Payne, as the phaeton passed out of sight. "Mr. De Burgh seems in high favor. I cannot help liking him myself. There is no nonsense about him, and he is quite a gentleman in spite of his brusquerie."

"Yes, I think he is," said Katherine, thoughtfully, and walked on a little while in silence. Then Miss Payne said she felt tired; so they got into the carriage again and drove to Mr. Newton's office. There Katherine alighted, and desired the driver to take Miss Payne home and return for herself.

"And what is your business to-day?" asked Mr. Newton, when, after a cordial greeting, his fair client had taken a chair beside his knee-hole table.

"A rather serious matter, I assure you. I want to make my will."

"Very right, very right; it will not bring you any nearer your last hour and it ought to be done."

The lawyer drew a sheet of paper to him, and prepared to "take instructions."

"I should like to leave several small legacies," began Katherine, "and have put down the names of those I wish to remember, with the amounts each is to receive. If you read over this paper" (handing it to him) "we can discuss——"

She was interrupted by a tap at the door which faced her, but was on Newton's left. A high screen protected the old lawyer from draughts, and prevented him from seeing who entered until the visitor stood before him.

"Come in," said Newton, peevishly; and as a clerk presented himself, added, "What do you want?"

"Beg pardon, sir. A gentleman downstairs wants to see you so very particularly that he insisted on my coming up."

"Well, say I can't. I am particularly engaged. He must wait."

While he spoke Katherine saw a man cross the threshold, a tall, gaunt man, slightly stooped. His clothes hung loosely on him, but they were new and good. His hair was iron gray, and thin on his craggy temples. Something about his watchful, stern eyes, his close-shut mouth, and strong, clean-shaven jaw seemed not unfamiliar to Katherine, and she was strangely struck and interested in his aspect. Mr. Newton's last words evidently reached his ear, for he answered, in deep, harsh tones, "No, Newton, I will not wait!" and walked in, pausing exactly opposite the lawyer, who grew grayly pale, and starting from his seat, leaned both hands on the table, while he trembled visibly. "My God!" he exclaimed, hoarsely; "George Liddell!"

"Ay, George Liddell! I thought you would know me."



CHAPTER XXIV.

A TRAVELLER'S STORY.

When these startling sentences penetrated to Katherine's comprehension she saw as with a flash their far-reaching consequences. Her uncle's will suppressed, his son and natural heir would take everything. And her dear boys—how would they fare?

She sat with wide-dilated eyes, gazing at the hard, displeased face of this unwelcome intruder. There were a few moments of profound silence; the old lawyer's hands, which relaxed their grasp of his chair as he looked with startled amazement at his late client's son, visibly trembled.

Liddell was the first to speak. "So you thought I was dead and out of the way," he said, with a sneer; "that nothing would happen to disturb the fortunate possessor of my father's money. I was dead and done for, and a good riddance."

"But how—how is it that you are alive!" stammered Mr. Newton.

"Oh, that I can easily account for." And he looked round for a chair.

"Yes, pray sit down," said Mr. Newton, recovering himself.

Here Katherine, with the unconscious tact of a sensitive woman, feeling how terrible it must be to find one's continued existence a source of regret to others, rose and held out her hand. "Let me, your kinswoman," she said, "welcome you back to life and home. I hope there are many happy years before you."

Liddell was greatly surprised. He mechanically took the hand offered to him, and looking earnestly into her face, exclaimed, "Who are you?"

"Katherine Liddell, your uncle Frederic's daughter."

He dropped—indeed, almost threw—her hand from him. "What!" he cried, "are you the supplanter, who took all without an inquiry, without an effort to find out if I were dead or alive?"

"Sit down—sit down—sit down," repeated Newton, still confused. "Let us talk over everything. As to trying to find you, we never dreamed of finding you, considering that twelve, fourteen years ago we had an account of your death from an eye-witness."

"Cowardly liar! It was worth a Jew's ransom to see him turn white and drop into a chair when I confronted him the day before yesterday."

"Why did you not communicate with me on hearing of your father's death?"

"When do you think I heard of it? Do you fancy I sat down in the midst of my busy day to pore over the births, deaths, and marriages in a paper, like a gossiping woman? Kith and kin were dead to me long ago. What did I care for English papers? What had my life or the life of my poor mother been that I should give those I had left behind a thought?" He paused, and taking a chair, looked very straight at Katherine. "Now I shall tell you my story, once for all, to show you that there is no use in disputing my rights. You know"—addressing Newton—"how my life was made a burden to me, and that I ran away to sea, ready to throw myself into it rather than return to my miserable home. After several voyages I found myself at Sydney. A young fellow who had been my mate on the voyage out, an active, clever chap, proposed that we should start for the gold fields; so we started. It was a desperate long tramp, but we reached them at last. Life was hard and rough, and for a time we worked and worked, and got nothing. At last we found a pocket, just as we were going to give up, and having secured a fair lot of gold, we divided our gains and determined to leave the camp, which was not too safe for a successful digger, before the rest knew of our treasure-trove. We decided to trudge it to the nearest place where we could buy horses, and then to make our way to Sydney as fast as we could. Somehow it must have got out that we had gold, for as the dusk of evening was closing round us on the second day of our march we were attacked by some men on horseback—bush-rangers, I suppose. We showed fight, and I was hit in the shoulder. At the same time I stumbled over a stump, and pitched on to my head, which stunned me. Just then, it seems, the sound of horses approaching frightened the scoundrels, and they made off. My mate, not knowing whether the new-comers were friends or foes, he says, got away as fast as he could. His story is that as soon as all was still he crept back, and finding me apparently quite dead, went on to report the catastrophe at the first road-side inn he came to. I believe that, thinking me dead, he took all my gold, and said precious little about me."

"His story to me," interrupted Mr. Newton, "was that he got assistance and buried your remains as decently as he could."

"What induced him to apply to you at all?"

"I do not know. I fancy it was to hand over a few small nuggets, which he said was your share of the findings, and which he took from your waistband before committing you to the grave. As he seemed frank and straightforward and quite poor, I confess I believed him, and even requested Mr. Liddell to give him some small present. He said he was going afloat again, and would sail in a few days. He had an old clasp-knife which I myself had given you, and with it a small pocket-book in which your name and my address were written in your own hand. These were tolerably convincing proofs that he at least knew you. Moreover, there seemed no need whatever that he should have made any attempt to communicate with your people. He might have held his tongue, and no question would have been raised respecting you."

"You are right," returned Liddell, bitterly.

"And how did you escape?" asked Katherine, with eager interest.

"He—this Tom Dunford—did go to the next inn and told of the attack; he even guided some men to the spot, and left them to bury me, because he was obliged to hurry on to Sydney; but I believe he returned, before going to the inn, and robbed me. Anyhow I was not killed by the bullet, but stunned by the fall. Some of the fellows who came with Tom fancied I did not seem quite dead. Finally I recovered, and instead of digging for gold myself, got others to dig for me. I set up an inn and a store, with the help of an American whose daughter I married, and now I am rich enough to be a formidable foe. I have a little girl, and when my wife died I determined to realize everything, to come to England, and have the child brought up as an English lady. On the voyage home I fell in with a man—a fellow of the rolling-stone order—to whom I used to talk now and again. He turned out to be the brother of one of your clerks, and from him I heard that my father had died intestate, that my cousin had taken possession of everything, and that I was looked upon as dead. Did you never attempt to prove the truth of Tom Dunford's story?"

"We did. I communicated with the police of Sydney, and they found that there had been a fight between bush-rangers and diggers returning from Woollamaroo at the time and place specified; moreover, that one of the diggers was killed, while the other escaped, but further nothing was known. The man who kept the inn mentioned by Dunford had made money and moved off, so the track was broken. Then all these years you made no sign. Did you not see the advertisements I put in an Australian paper?"

"No; I was far away from any town, and rarely saw any but the American papers which came to my master. Well, here I am, determined to have every inch of my rights, let who will stand in my way; and you"—looking fiercely into Newton's eyes—"shall be my first witness."

"I cannot deny that I recognize you," said Newton, reluctantly.

Liddell laughed scornfully. "And you?" turning to Katherine.

"I have no doubt you are my cousin George."

"Right! As to that fellow Tom—he would never have hurt me, but I am sure he robbed me, especially if he thought I was dead. His game was to hold himself harmless whether I lived or died, only he ought not to have committed himself to seeing me buried. I found him out in Liverpool, and gave him a fright, for he really believed me dead. Now, cousin, I hope you understand that I mean to take every farthing of my father's fortune. He never did me much good in my life, nor my poor mother either, and I am determined to get all I can out of what he has left behind him. But I never dreamed he could pass away without taking care that nothing should come to me. It is strange that your mother and my uncle should make no fresh attempt to discover me."

"We had looked upon you as dead for years, and my father had died before the news of your supposed murder reached us." Katherine could hardly steady her voice; she was burning to get away. "I beg you will not resent the fact of my most unconscious usurpation. I would not do anything unjust." She stopped, remembering what she had done. Surely the punishment was coming quick upon her.

"Ay," said George Liddell, looking sternly at her. "It is a bitter pill for a fine lady like you to swallow, to find a ragged outcast like me thrusting you from the place you have no right to; where my poor little wild untutored girl will take her stand in spite of you all."

"From what I have heard, I do not think my father or mother ever treated you as an outcast," said Katherine, with quiet dignity; adding, as she rose to leave them, "You seem so irritated against me I will leave you with Mr. Newton, who will, I know, act as a true friend to both of us."

Mr. Newton, with a grave and troubled face, hastened after to see her to her carriage. "This is an awful blow!" he said in a low voice.

"It is, no doubt. Do you think, as he is already rich, that he might do something for the boys? Then I should not care."

"The boys!"—impatiently. "You need not trouble about them when he has the power to rob you even of the trifle you inherit from your father by demanding the arrears of income since your uncle's death, as he has the right to do. Why, he can beggar you!"

"Indeed! He looks like a hard man; he is like his father."

"Well, trust me, I will do my best for you."

"I know you will," returned Katherine, pressing the old lawyer's hand as he leaned against the carriage door.

"Good-by! God bless you!" he returned; and Katherine was carried away from him. Slowly and sadly the old man ascended to his office again to confront the angry claimant, who awaited him impatiently.

Meantime Katherine was striving to think clearly, to rouse herself from the stunned, bewildered condition into which the appearance of George Liddell had thrown her, and which Mr. Newton's words increased. What was to become of Cis and Charlie if she were beggared? She could not face the prospect. There was still a way of escape left, a glimpse of which had been given to her as she listened to her cousin's vindictive utterances. If she could prevail on Errington to produce the will and assert his right, he would provide for those poor innocent boys, and never ask her for any of the money she had spent. Maybe he would share with George himself. She must see Errington at once, and with the strictest secrecy. Her thoughts cleared as, bit by bit, her plan unfolded itself in her busy brain. Then she made up her mind. Touching the check-string, she desired the driver to stop at a small fancyware and stationer's shop near Miss Payne's house. Arrived there, she dismissed the carriage, saying she would walk home.

"Give me paper and an envelope: I want to write a few lines," she said to the smiling shopwoman, who knew her to be one of their best customers.

Having traced a few words entreating Errington to see her early next day—should he happen to be out or engaged—she hailed a hansome, and went as quickly as she could to his lodgings in the Temple.

It was quite different, this second visit, from the first. He now knew all, and in spite of her fears and profound uneasiness she felt a thrill of pleasure at the idea of the necessity for taking counsel with him, the prospect of half an hour's undisturbed communication, of hearing his voice, and feeling his kind forgiving glance. Still it was an awful trial too—to tell him the upshot of her dishonesty, the confusion she had wrought by her deviation into a crooked path. She was trembling from head to foot by the time she reached Errington's abode.

A severe-looking woman, a caretaker apparently, was on the stair as Katherine ascended, feeling dreadfully puzzled what to do, as she feared having to knock in vain and go away without leaving her note.

"Can you tell me if Mr. Errington is at home?" she asked, timidly, quite frightened at the sound of her own voice in so strange a place.

"I am sure I don't know, miss. I dare say he's gone out. He is up the next flight."

"May I ask you to inquire if he is in? If not, would you be so kind as to leave this note?"

The woman took it with a rather discontented suspicious air, but finding it was accompanied by a coin of the realm, went on her errand with great alacrity. Katherine followed slowly.

"You're to walk up at once; he's in," said the emissary, meeting her at the top of the stair.

At the door stood Errington, her note in his hand, and a serious, uneasy expression on his countenance. Katherine was very white; her eyes were dilated with a look of fear and distress.

"Pray come in," said Errington; and he closed the door behind her. "I fear you are in some difficulty. You can speak without reserve; I am quite alone."

Katherine was aware of passing through a small room with doors right and left, and possessing only a couple of chairs and a small table; through this Errington led her to his sitting-room, which was almost lined with books, and comfortably furnished. He placed a chair for her, and returned to his own seat by a table at which he had been writing.

"The last time I came it was in the hope of assisting you by my confession; now I have come to beg for your help—" She stopped abruptly. "My uncle's son George, who was believed to have been killed by bush-rangers in Australia more than fourteen years ago, has returned, alive and well."

"But can he prove his identity?"

"I was with Mr. Newton when he came into the office, and the moment Mr. Newton saw him he started up, exclaiming, 'George Liddell!' and I—I saw the likeness to his father."

"Did Newton know him formerly?"

"Yes; he seems to have been almost his only friend."

"How was it he did not put in an appearance and assert his rights before?"

"I will tell you all." And she went on to describe the interview which had just taken place, the curious vindictive spirit which her cousin displayed, his very recent knowledge of his father's death, and Mr. Newton's words of warning, "He has the power to rob you even of the trifle you inherit from your father, by demanding the arrears of income since your uncle's death; he can beggar you."

"No doubt he can, but surely he will not!" exclaimed Errington.

"It seems to me that if he can he will. To give him up that which is his is quite right, and will not cost me a pang; but to be penniless, to send back my poor dear little boys, to be considered and treated as burdens by their mother and Colonel Ormonde—oh, I cannot bear it! I know now Charlie would be crushed and Cecil would be hardened. It is for this I come to you for help. Mr. Errington, I implore you to produce the will which puts this cruelty out of George Liddell's power. Surely you might say that not liking to disinherit me, you suppressed it? This is true, you know."

"The will!" exclaimed Errington, starting up and pacing the room in great agitation. "My God! I have destroyed it. Thinking it safer for you that it should be out of the way, I destroyed it, and by so doing I have given you, bound hand and foot, into the power of this man. Can you forgive me?—can you ever forgive me?" He took and wrung her hand, holding it for a moment, while he looked imploringly into her eyes.

"Oh yes, I do heartily forgive you. You only did it to save me from any chance of discovery. If only George Liddell will be satisfied not to claim the money I have spent, I may still be able to keep the boys, for I have nearly a hundred and fifty pounds a year quite my own," cried Katherine, loosing her hand. "Do not distress yourself, Mr. Errington. I know Mr. Newton will do his best for me, and perhaps my cousin will not exact the arrears. He says he is rich, and if I give him no trouble——" she paused, for she could not command her voice, while the tears were already glittering in her eyes. Another word and they would have been rolling down her cheeks.

"Don't cry, for God's sake!" said Errington, in a low tone, resuming his seat. "What can be done to soften this fellow? Ah! Miss Liddell, we are quits now. If you robbed me, I have ruined you."

"From what different motives!" said Katherine, recovering her self-control. "I am still the wrong-doer."

How heavenly sweet it was to be consoled and sympathized with by him! But she dared not stay. It was terribly bold of her to have come to his rooms, only he would never misjudge her, and she was so little known she scarcely feared recognition by any one she might meet.

"Could I assist Mr. Newton at all in dealing with this kinsman of yours?" resumed Errington, gazing at her with a troubled look.

"I fear you could not. How are you to know anything of my troubles? No one dreams that you have any knowledge of my affairs; that you and you only are aware what an impostor I am."

"You are expiating your offence bitterly. But when the story of this George Liddell comes out, why should I not, as the son of his father's old friend, make his acquaintance, and try to persuade him to forego his full rights?"

"You might try," said Katherine, dejectedly. "Now I have trespassed long enough. I must go. I have to explain matters to Miss Payne, and I feel curiously dazed. Oh, if I can keep the boys!"

"If any effort of mine can help you, it is my duty as well as my sincere pleasure to do all I can."

"And if the will existed would you have acted on it?"

"Most certainly—in your defence."

"Ah!" cried Katherine, her eyes lighting up, her tremulous lips parting in a smile. "Then you would have had some of the money too."

"Then you quite forgive me?" again rising, and coming over to stand beside her.

"You must feel I do, Mr. Errington. Now I will say good-by. If you can help me with George, I shall be most grateful."

"Promise that you will look on me as one of your most devoted friends. He took her hand again.

"Can you indeed feel friendship for one you cannot respect?" she returned, in a low tone, with one of the quick, vivid blushes which usually rose to her cheek when she was much moved.

"But I do respect you. Why should I not? A generous, impulsive woman like you cannot be judged by the cold maxims of exact justice; you must be tried by the higher rules of equity."

"You comfort me," said Katherine, with indescribably sweet graceful humility. "I thank you heartily, and will say good-by."

"I will come and see you into a cab," returned Errington, feeling himself anxious that no one should recognize her, and not knowing when their tete-a-tete might be interrupted.

They went out together, and walked a little way in silence. "You will let me come and see you, to hear—" began Errington, when Katherine interrupted him.

"Not just now. I think we had better not seem to know anything of each other, or perhaps George Liddell may suspect you of being my friend."

"I see. But at least you will keep me informed of how things go on. Remember how tormented I am with remorse for my hasty act."

"You need not be. But I will write. There—there is a cab."

Errington hailed it, handed her in carefully, and they said good-by with a sudden sense of intimacy which months of ordinary communication would not have produced.

It was a very serious undertaking to break the intelligence to Miss Payne, and poor Katherine felt quite exhausted before her exclamations, questions, and wonderings were half over.

On one or two points Miss Payne at once made up her mind, nor had she ever quite altered her opinion: This man representing himself as George Liddell was an impostor who had known the real "Simon Pure," and got himself up accordingly as soon as he heard that the late John Liddell had died intestate; that Mr. Newton was a weak-minded, credulous idiot to acknowledge this impostor at first sight, if he were not a double-dealing traitor ready to play into the hands of the new claimant. He ought to have thrown the onus of proof on him, instead of acknowledging his identity by that childish exclamation. Don't tell her that he was startled out of prudence and precaution. A spirit from above or below would not have thrown her (Miss Payne) off her guard where property was concerned, and what was the use of men's superior strength and courage if they could not hold their tongues in presence of an unexpected apparition?

She was, however, profoundly disturbed, and sent at once for her brother.

It was evening before he arrived in Wilton Street, having gone out before Miss Payne's note reached him. Like Errington, he was at first incredulous, and when he had gathered the facts of the case, absolutely overcome. In fact, he showed more emotion than Errington, yet it did not impress Katherine so much as Errington's deep, suppressed feeling.

"But what are you to do?" he said, raising his head, which he had bowed on his hand in a kind of despair.

"It is just the question I have been asking myself," said Katherine, quietly. "For even if dear old Mr. Newton succeeds in softening George Liddell, and he forgives me the outlay of what was certainly his money, the little that belongs to myself I shall want for my nephews."

"And pray is their mother to contribute nothing toward the maintenance of her children?" asked Miss Payne, severely.

"Poor Ada! she has nothing of her own; it will be desperately hard on her;" and Katherine sighed deeply. Her hearers little knew the remorse that afflicted her as she reflected on the false position into which she had drawn her sister-in-law. What a rage Colonel Ormonde would be in! How unwisely audacious it was in any mere mortal to play Providence for herself or her fellows! But Miss Payne was speaking:

"I don't see the hardship; she has a husband behind her—a rich man too."

"For herself it is all well enough, but it must be very hard to think that one's children are a burden on a reluctant husband; besides, the boys will feel it cruelly. Oh, if I can only keep them with me!"

"I understand you," cried Bertie. "Would to God you could lay your burden at His feet who alone can help in time of need. If you could——"

He was interrupted by Francois, who brought a letter just arrived by the last post.

"It is from Mr. Newton," exclaimed Katherine, opening it eagerly. And having read it rapidly, she added, "You would like to hear what he says."

"'MY DEAR MISS LIDDELL,—As I cannot see you early to-morrow I will send you a report. I had a long argument with your cousin after you left to-day, and although he is still in an unreasonable state of irritation against you and myself and every one, I do not despair of bringing him to a better and a juster frame of mind. For the present it would be as well you did not meet. I should advise your taking steps at once to remove your nephews from Sandbourne, and also, while you have money pay the quarter in advance, as you do not know how matters may turn. It was a most fortunate circumstance that the house occupied by Miss Trant was purchased in her name, as Mr. Liddell cannot touch that, and if she is at all the woman you suppose her to be, she will pay you interest for your money. If you could only persuade your cousin to let you see and make friends with this little daughter of his—there lies the road to his heart.

"'Meanwhile say as little as possible to any one about this sudden change in your fortunes. To Miss Payne you must, of course, explain matters; but she is a sensible, prudent woman.

"'With sincere sympathy, believe me yours most truly, "'W. NEWTON.'"

"There is a gleam of hope, then," exclaimed Bertie.

"I don't know what you mean about hope. At best a drop from about two thousand a year to a hundred and fifty is not a subject for congratulation.—Well, Katherine, you are most welcome to stay here as my guest till you find something to do, for find something you must."

"I knew you would be kind and true," said Katherine, her voice a little tremulous, "and believe me I will not sit with folded hands."



CHAPTER XXV.

"BREAD CAST ON THE WATERS."

There were indeed long and heavy days for Katherine, few though they were, before Mr. Newton thought it well to communicate the intelligence to Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde. He wished to be able to extract some more favorable terms from Liddell, so that his favorite client might fulfil her ardent desire to keep her nephews still with her, and assist in their maintenance and education. This was, in the shrewd old lawyer's estimation, a most Quixotic project, but he saw it was the only idea which enabled her to bear the extreme distress caused by the prospect of returning the poor children on their mother's hands.

A period of uncertainty is always trying, and the reflection that the present crisis was the result of her unfortunate infringement of the unalterable law of right and wrong overwhelmed her with a sense of guilt. Had she not meddled with the matter, no doubt such a man as Errington would, were the case properly represented to him, have given some portion of the wealth bequeathed him to the family of the testator. But how could she have foreseen? True; but she might have resisted the temptation to deviate from the straight path. "She might!" What an abyss of endless regret yawns at the sound of those words, used in the sense of too late!

This was a hard worldly trouble over which she could not weep. Over and over again she told herself that nothing should part her from the boys, that she would devote her life to repair as far as possible the injury she had done them. And Ada, would she also suffer for her (Katherine's) sins? But while brooding constantly on these miserable thoughts she kept a brave front, quiet and steady, though Miss Payne saw that her composure hid a good deal of suffering.

It was more, however, than Katherine's resolution could accomplish to keep a few evening engagements which she had made. "I should feel too great an impostor," she said. "How thankful I shall be when the murder is out and the nine days' wonder over! Have you any commissions, dear Miss Payne? I want an object to take me out, and I feel I must not mope in-doors."

"No, I cannot say I have any shopping to do, and I am obliged to go into the City myself. Take a steady round of Kensington Gardens; it is quite mild and bright to-day. I shall not return till six, I am afraid."

So Katherine went out alone immediately after luncheon, before the world and his wife had time to get abroad. She had made a circuit of the ornamental water, and was returning by the footpath near the sunk fence which separates the Gardens from the Park, when she recognized De Burgh coming toward her. He had been in her thoughts at the moment; for, feeling that it was quite likely he had been considered a suitor, she was anxious to give him an opportunity of making an honorable retreat before society found out that the sceptre of wealth had slipped from her hand.

"Pray is this the way you cure a cold?" he asked, abruptly. "Last night Lady Mary Vincent informed me that you had staid at home to nurse a cold. This morning I call to enquire for the interesting invalid, and find she is out in the cool February air."

"It is very mild, and it is at night the air is dangerous," returned Katherine, smiling.

"Now I look at you, I don't think you look so blooming as usual. May I go back with you and pay my visit of condolence, in spite of having left my card?"

"Yes," said Katherine, with sudden decision. "I want to speak to you."

"Indeed!"—with a keen, eager look. "This is something new. May I ask—"

"No; not until we are in Miss Payne's drawing-room."

"You alarm me. Could it be possible that you, peerless as you are, have got into a scrape?"

"Well, I think I can say I have," said Katherine, smiling.

"Great heavens! this is delightful."

"Let us talk of something else."

"By all means. Will you hear some gossip? I don't often retail any, but I fancy you'll be amused and interested to know that Lady Alice Mordaunt is really going to marry that brewer fellow. You remember I told you what I thought was going on last autumn."

"Is it possible?" cried Katherine. "Imagine her so soon forgetting Mr. Errington!"

"And why should not that immaculate individual be exempt from the usual fate of man?"

"I don't know—except that he is not an ordinary man."

"No; certainly not. He is an extraordinary fellow; but I must say he has shown great staying power in his late difficulties. They tell me he has been revenging himself by writing awful problems, political and critical, which require a forty-horse intellectual power to understand." And De Burgh talked on, seeing that his companion was disinclined to speak until they reached Miss Payne's house.

Katherine took off her hat and warm cloak with some deliberation, thinking how best to approach her subject. Pushing back her hair, which had become somewhat disordered from its own weight, she sat down on an ottoman, and raising her eyes to De Burgh, who stood on the hearth-rug, said, slowly, "I have a secret to tell you which you must keep for a few weeks."

"For an eternity, if you will trust me," he returned, in low, earnest tones, his dark eyes fixed upon her, as if trying to read her heart.

"Well, then, my uncle's son and heir, whom we believed to be dead, has suddenly reappeared, and of course takes the fortune I have been, let us say, enjoying."

De Burgh did not reply at once; his eyes continued to search her face as if to discover some hidden meaning.

"Do you mean me to take you seriously, Miss Liddell?"

"Quite. Moreover, I fear my cousin means to demand the arrears of income—income which I have spent."

"But the fellow must be an impostor. Your man of business, Newton, will never yield to his demands. He must prove his case."

"I think he has proved it. Mr. Newton recognized him at the first glance; and he bears a strong resemblance to his father. I feel he is the man he asserts himself to be."

"Do you intend to give up without a struggle? What account does this intruder give of himself?"

Katherine gave him a brief sketch of the story, speaking with firmness and composure.

"What an infernal shame!" cried De Burgh, when she ceased speaking. "I wish I had had a chance of sending a bullet through his head, and as sure as there is a devil down below I'd have verified the report of his death! Why, what is to be done?"

"I still faintly hope Mr. Newton may persuade him to forego his first demand for the restoration of those moneys I have spent. If so, I am not quite penniless, and can hope to— At all events, I thought it but right to give you early information, as—"

"Why?" interrupted De Burgh (for she hesitated), throwing himself on the ottoman and leaning against the arm which divided the seats, till his long dark mustaches nearly touched the coils of her hair. "Why?" he repeated, as she did not answer immediately. "I know well enough. It is your loyalty that makes you wish to open a way of escape to the friend who is credited with seeking your fortune. I see it all."

"You can assign any motive you like, Mr. De Burgh, but I thought—I wished—I believed it better to let you know; for I shall always consider you my friend, even if we do not meet," said Katherine, a good deal unhinged by the excitement and distress he displayed.

"Meet? why, of course we shall meet! Do you think anything in heaven or earth would make me give up the attempt, hopeless as it may seem, to win you? I know you don't care a rap for me now, but I cannot, dare not despair. I've too much at stake. There is the awful sting of this misfortune. Even if you, by some blessed intervention of Providence, were ready to marry me, I don't see how I could drag you into such a sea of trouble. Besides, there's old De Burgh; he must be kept in good-humor. By Heaven! this miserable want of money is the most utter degradation—irresistible, enslaving. I feel like a beaten cur. I am tied hand and foot. Had I not been such a reckless idiot, why, your misfortunes might have been my best chance. I dare say that sounds shabby enough, but I like to let you see what I am, good and bad; besides, I am ready to do anything, right or wrong, to win you."

"Ah, Mr. De Burgh, no crookedness ever succeeds. And then I do not deserve that you should think so much or care so much for me, for I do not wish to marry you or any one. My plan of life is framed on quite different lines. Do put me out of your mind, and think of your own fortunes. Do not vex Lord De Burgh; but oh! pray give up racing and gambling. You know I really do like you, not exactly in the way you wish, but it adds greatly to my troubles (for I am very sorry to lose my fortune, I assure you) to see you so—so disturbed."

"If you look at me so kindly with those sweet wet eyes I shall lose my head," cried De Burgh, who was already beside himself, for the gulf which had suddenly yawned between him and the woman he coveted seemed to grow wider as he looked at it. "I am the most unlucky devil in existence, and I have brought you ill luck. I should have kept away from you, for you are a hundred thousand times too good for me; but as I have thrown myself headlong into the delicious pain of loving you, won't you give me a chance? Promise to wait for me: a week, a day, may see me wealthy, and I swear I will strive to be worthy too: why were those bush-rangers such infernally bad-shots?—and I can be no use to you whatever?"

"But I have many kind friends, Mr. De Burgh. You must not distress yourself about me. I am not frightened, I assure you. Now I have told you everything, don't you think you would better go?" She rose as she spoke, and held out her hand.

"Better for you, yes, but not for me. Look here, Katherine, don't banish me. I am obliged to go with old De Burgh to Paris. He is making for Cannes again, and asked me to come so far. Of course he has a chain round my neck. I must obey orders like his bond-slave, but when I come back—don't banish me. I swear I'll be an unobtrusive friend, and I may be of use. Don't send me quite away; in short, I won't take a dismissal. What is it you object to? What absurd stories have been told you to set you against me? Other women have liked me well enough."

"I have no doubt you deserve to be loved, Mr. De Burgh, but there are feelings that, like the wind, blow where they list; we cannot tell whence they come or whither they go. I am sorry I do not love you, but—I am very tired. If you care to come and see me when you come back, come if I have any place in which to receive you."

"If I write, will you answer my letters?"

"Oh no; don't write; I would rather you did not."

"I am a brute to keep you when you look so white; I'll go. Good-by for the present—only for the present, you dear, sweet woman!" He kissed her hand twice and went quickly out of the room.

Katherine heaved a sigh of relief. The degree of liking she had for De Burgh made her feel greatly distressed at having been obliged to give him pain. Yet she was not by any means disposed to trust him; his restless eagerness to gratify every whim and desire as it came to him, the kind of harshness which made him so indifferent to the feelings and opinions of those who opposed him—this was very repellent to Katherine's more considerate and sympathetic nature. Besides, and above all, De Burgh was not Errington; and it needs no more to explain why the former, who had no reason hitherto to complain of the coldness of women, found the only one he had ever loved with a high order of affection untouched by his wooing.

The day after this interview Katherine, accompanied by Miss Payne, went down to Sandbourne to interview the principal of the boys' school, to explain the state of affairs, to give notice that she should be obliged to remove them, and to pay in advance for the time they were to remain.

The visit was full of both pain and pleasure. The genuine delight of the children on seeing her unexpectedly, their joy at being permitted to go out to walk with her, their innocent talk, and the castles in the air which they erected in the firm conviction that they were to have horses and dogs, man-servants and maid-servants, all the days of their lives, touched her heart. The principal gave a good account of both. Cecil was, he said, erratic and excitable in no common degree, but though troublesome, he was truthful and straightforward, while Charlie promised to develop qualities of no common order. He entered with a very friendly spirit into the anxiety of the young aunt, whose motherly tenderness for her nephews touched him greatly. He gave her some valuable advice, and the address of two schools regulated to suit parents of small means, and which he could safely recommend. By his suggestion nothing was said for the present to Cis or Charlie regarding the impending change, lest they should be unsettled.

"And shall we come to stay at Miss Payne's for the Easter holidays?" cried the boys in chorus, as Katherine took leave of them the next day.

"I hope so, dears, but I am not sure."

"Then will you come down to Sandbourne? That would be jolly."

"I cannot promise, Cecil. We will see."

"But, auntie, we'll not have to go to Castleford?"

"Why? Would you not like to go?"

"No. Would you, Charlie? I don't like being there nearly so much as at school. I don't like having dinner by ourselves, and yet I don't care to dine with Colonel Ormonde; he is always in a wax."

"He does not mean to be cross," said Katherine, her heart sinking within her. Should she be obliged to hand over the poor little helpless fellows to the reluctant guardianship of their irritable step-father? This would indeed be a pang. Was it for this she had broken the law, and marred the harmony of her own moral nature?

"Well, my own dear, I will do the best I can for you, you may be quite sure. Now you must let me go; I will come again as soon as I can." Cis kissed her heartily, and scampered away to take his place in the class-room, quite content with his school life. Charlie threw his arms around his auntie's neck, and clung to her lovingly. But he too was called away, and nothing remained for Katherine and her companion but to make their way to the station and return to town.

This visit cost Katherine more than any other outcome of George Liddell's reappearance. Her quick imagination depicted what the boys' lives would be under the jurisdiction of their mother and her husband—the worries, the suppression, the sense of being always naughty and in the wrong, the different yet equally pernicious effect such treatment would have on the brothers.

"This is the worst part of the business to you," said Miss Payne, when they had reached home and sat down to a late tea together. "You look like a ghost, or as if you had seen one. You will make yourself ill, and really there is no need to do anything of the kind. Those children have a mother who is very well off. I always thought it frightfully imprudent of you to take those boys even when you had plenty of money. Now, of course, when it is impossible for you to keep them, it is a bitter wrench to part, but—"

"But I am not sure that we must part," interrupted Katherine, eagerly. "Should my cousin be induced to forego his claims upon me for the income I have expended, and I can find some means of maintaining myself, I could still provide for their school expenses and keep them with me."

"Maintain yourself, my dear Katherine; it is easier said than done. You are quite infatuated about those nephews of yours, and I dare say they will give you small thanks."

"I know it is not easy for an untrained woman like myself to find remunerative work, but I shall try. Here is a note from Mr. Newton asking me to call on him to-morrow. Let us hope he will have some good news, though I cannot help fearing he would have told me in this if he had."

It was with a sickening sensation of uneasy hope shot with dark streaks of fear that Katherine started to keep her appointment with Mr. Newton. Eager to begin her economy at once, Katherine took an omnibus instead of indulging in a brougham or a cab. She could not help smiling at her own sense of helpless discomfort when a fat woman almost sat down upon her, and the conductor told her to look sharp when the vehicle stopped to let her alight; as she reflected that barely three years ago she considered an omnibus rather a luxury, and that it was a matter of careful calculation how many pennies might be saved by walking to certain points whence one could travel at a reduced fare. How easily are luxurious and self-indulgent habits formed! Well, she had done with them forever now; nor would anything seem a hardship were she but permitted to repair in some measure the evil she had wrought.

She found Mr. Newton awaiting her with evident impatience. "Well, my dear Miss Liddell," he said, "I have been most anxious to see you, though I have not much that is cheering to communicate. I have had several interviews with your cousin, but he seems still unaccountably hard and vindictive. However, as I am, of course, your adviser, he has been obliged to seek another solicitor, and I am happy to say he has fallen into good hands, and that by a sort of lucky chance."

"How?" asked Katherine, who was looking pale and feeling in the depths.

"Well, a few days ago a gentleman called here to ask me for the address of a former client of whom I have heard nothing for years. I think you know or have met this gentleman—Mr. Errington."

"I do," cried Katherine, now all attention.

"While we were speaking Mr. Liddell was announced. Errington looked at him hard, and then asked politely if he were the son of the late Mr. John Liddell, who had been a great friend of his (Errington's) father. Your cousin seemed to know the name, and, moreover, very pleased at being spoken to and remembered. Mr. Errington offered to call, and now I find he has recommended his own solicitors, Messrs. Compton & Barnes, to George Liddell. I had an interview with the head of the firm yesterday, and he has evidently advised that the strictly legal claims against you should not be pressed. I cannot help thinking that Mr. Errington has interested himself on your side."

"Indeed!" cried Katherine, life and warmth coming back to her heart at his words.

"Yes, I do. Compton appears to have the highest possible opinion of Errington as a man of integrity and intelligence. He, Compton says, believes that if Liddell could be persuaded such a line of conduct toward you would injure him socially, he would not seek to enforce his rights, for he is evidently anxious to make a position in the respectable world. As you make no opposition to his claims he ought to show you consideration. This accidental encounter between Errington and your cousin will, I am sure, prove a fortunate circumstance."

In her own mind Katherine could not help doubting its accidental character. How infinitely good and forgiving Errington was! While she thought, Mr. Newton mused.

"I suppose you have a tolerable balance at the bank?" he said, abruptly.

"Yes. I have never spent a year's income in a year. Just lately, except for buying that house, I have spent very little."

"That house! Oh—ah! I shall be curious to see how Miss Trant will behave. If she is true to her word; if she looks upon your loan to her as a loan—an investment on your side—you may gain an addition to your income through what was an act of pure benevolence. When you go home, my dear young lady, look at your bank-book, and let me know exactly how you stand. We might offer this cormorant of a cousin a portion of your savings to finish the business. Indeed I should advise you to draw a good large check at once so as to provide yourself with ready money."

"Would it be quite—quite honest to do so?" asked Katherine, anxiously.

"Pray do you impugn my integrity?"

"No! But suppose George Liddell found I had drawn a large check—perhaps the very day before I propose through you to hand over what remains to me—he would think me a cheat?"

"And pray why should he know anything about your bank-book? or what consideration do you owe him? He is behaving very harshly and badly to you. We will state what is in the bank after you have drawn your check, and offer him half—which is a great deal too much for him. Yet I should like him to be your friend, if possible. Could you get hold of that little girl of his? Affection for her seems to be the only human thing about him."

"I think I should rather have nothing to do with him," murmured Katherine.

"Well, well, we will see. Now, though we have not succeeded in coming to any settlement with Liddell, I believe we ought not to leave Mrs. Ormonde any longer in ignorance respecting the change which has taken place."

"No, I am sure they ought to know. I have been troubling myself about both the Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde," said Katherine. "This is what I dread most." And she sighed.

"I do not see why you need. I am sure you acted with noble liberality to Mrs. Ormonde and her boys when you thought you were the rightful owner of the property."

"The rightful owner," repeated Katherine, with a thrill of pain. "It has been an unfortunate ownership to me."

"It has—it has indeed, my dear young lady, but we must see how to help you at this juncture. If Miss Trant behaves as she ought, we must put a little more capital in that concern if it is as thriving as you believe. It may turn out very useful to you."

"I have not seen her since my cousin came to life again, for I could not see her and keep back my strange story. May I tell her now?"

"Certainly. It was from Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde I wished to keep back the disastrous news till some agreement should be come to."

"You must not call my cousin's return to life and country disastrous," said Katherine, smiling. "I am sure, if he will only give me the chance of keeping my boys with me, I am quite ready to welcome him to both. Now I shall leave you, for I want to send away my letter to Ada this evening, and it is a difficult letter to write."

"I have no doubt you will state your case clearly and well," returned Mr. Newton, rising to shake hands with her. "Let me hear what Mrs. Ormonde says in reply; and see your protegee, Miss Trant. I am anxious to learn her views."

"I am quite sure I know what they will be," said Katherine.

"Don't be too sure. Human nature is a very crooked thing—more crooked than a true heart like yours can imagine," continued the old man, holding her hand kindly.

"Ah, Mr. Newton," she cried, with an irresistible outburst of penitence, "you little know what crooked things I can imagine."

"Can't I?" he said laughing at what he fancied was her little joke, and glad to see her bearing her troubles so lightly. "You'll come all right yet, my dear; you have the right spirit. Is your carriage waiting?"

"Not here; but in Holborn I have several at my command," she returned. "Good-by; no, you must not come downstairs; it is damp and chilly."

On reaching her home, the home she must so soon resign, Katherine sent a note to Rachel Trant asking if she had a spare hour that evening, as she, Katherine, had something to tell her, and preferred going to her house. Then she sat down to write a full and detailed account of what had taken place to her sister-in-law. It was dusk before she had finished and she herself felt considerably exhausted. Miss Payne had gone out to dine with one of her former girls, now the wife of a rackety horsy man, whose conduct made her often look back with a sigh of regret to the tranquil days passed under the guardianship of the prudent spinster; so having partaken of tea at their usual dinner-time she sat and mused awhile on the one subject from which she could derive comfort—Errington and his wonderful kindness to her. If he took the matter in hand she thought herself safe. Her confidence in him was unbounded. Ah! why had she placed such a gulf between them? How she had destroyed her own life! There was but one tie between her and the world, little Charlie and Cis, and perhaps she had been their greatest enemy. She almost wished she could love De Burgh. He was undoubtedly in earnest; he interested her; he—But no. Between her and any possible husband she had reared the insurmountable barrier of a secret not to be shared by any save one, from whom, somehow, instead of dividing her, had bound her indissolubly; at least she felt it to be so.

It was near the hour she had fixed to call on Rachel, so she roused herself, and asking the amiable Francois to accompany her, started for Malden Street.

Rachel Trant had made a back parlor, designated the "trying-on" room, bright and cosy, with a shaded lamp, a red fire, a couple of easy-chairs at either side of it, and a gay cloth over the small round table erst strewn with fashion books, measuring tapes, pins, patterns and pin-cushions.

"How very good of you to come to me!" cried Miss Trant, hastening to divest her friend of bonnet and cloak. "I am very curious to hear the story you have to tell." Then, as Katherine sat down where the lamp-light fell upon her face, she added, "But you are not looking well, Miss Liddell; your eyes look heavy; your mouth is sad."

"I am troubled, more than sad," said Katherine; "the why and wherefore I have come to tell you."

"Yes; tell me everything." And Rachel took a low seat opposite her guest; her usually pale face was slightly flushed, her large blue eyes darkened with the pleasure of seeing the friend she loved so warmly and the interest with which she awaited her disclosure, and as Katherine looked at her she realized how pretty and attractive she must have been before the fresh grace of her girlhood had been withered by the cruel fires of passion and despair. "I am listening," said Rachel, gently, to recall her visitor, whose thoughts were evidently far away.

"Yes; I had forgotten." And Katherine began her story.

Rachel Trant listened with rapt, intense attention, nor did she interrupt the narrative by a single question.

When Katherine ceased to speak she remained silent for a second or two longer: then she asked, "Are you convinced of the truth of this man's story?"

"I am, for Mr. Newton does not seem to have a doubt. Oh! he is my uncle John's only son—only child, indeed—and he is like him. I always fancied from the little my uncle said about George that he was naturally kind and sympathetic, but he has had a hard life, and it has made him hard. The loss of his mother was a terrible misfortune."

"Was he young when she died?"

"He was about fourteen, I think; but he lost her by a worse misfortune than death. She was driven away by my uncle's severity and harshness; she left him for another."

"What! left her son?"

"Yes—it seems incredible—nor does my cousin resent her desertion. On the contrary, all the affection and softness in him appears to centre round his daughter and the memory of his mother."

"Then," said Rachel, "if this man persists in demanding his rights, you will be beggared, and those dear boys must go back to their mother. They will not be too welcome."

"Oh no! no! I feel that only too keenly."

"But you will not be penniless nor homeless," cried Rachel. "He cannot touch this house. You made it over to me, and I will use it for you. There are two nice rooms I can arrange for you upstairs. I am doing well, and if I had but a little more capital, I should not fear; I should not doubt making a great success. My dear, dearest Miss Liddell, I may be of use to you, after all. Tell me, is this Mr. Newton truly interested in you—anxious to help you?"

"I am sure he is; he is very unhappy about me."

"Do you think he would let me call on him? I want to tell him the plans that are coming into my head. I can explain all the business part to him. If I can get through this year without debt, I am pretty sure of providing you with an income—an increasing income. This is a joy I never anticipated. And then you can keep your little nephews, and be a real mother to them. I don't want to trouble you with the business details of my plan; you would not understand them. But Mr. Newton will. Pray write a line asking him to see me, to name his own time. Stay; here are paper and pen and ink; ask him to write to me. He knows—he knows my story. At least—" She stopped, coloring crimson.

"He knows all it is needful for me to tell," said Katherine, gravely. "Yes, Rachel, it is better to explain all to him. He is kind and wise, and I am strangely stupefied by this extraordinary overturn of my fortunes. I shall be glad of your help, but do not neglect your own future, dear Rachel."

"I shall not: I shall make enough for us both. You have indeed given me something to live for."



CHAPTER XXVI.

COLONEL AND MRS. ORMONDE.

The moral effect of feeling in touch with some loyal, tender, sympathizing fellow-creature is immense. It gives faith in one's self—a belief in the possibilities for good hidden in the future; above all, relief from that most paralyzing of mental conditions, a sense of isolation.

Katherine walked back alone in the dark. The sooner she accustomed herself to habits of independence the better; for the future she must learn to stand alone, to take care of herself, unassisted by maid or flunky. It made her a little nervous; for although in the old impecunious days she went on all necessary errands in the morning alone, she rarely left the house after sundown even with a companion. They were very monotonous days, those which seemed to have fled away so far into the soft misty gloom of the past. Yet how full of fragrance was their memory! The castle-building, the vague bright hopes, the joy of helping the dear mother, the utter absolute trust in her, the struggle with the necessities of life—all were more or less sweet; and now to what an end she had brought the simple drama of her youth! Had she resisted that strange prompting which kept her silent when Mr. Newton began to look for the will, how different everything might have been! Errington might be well off too, and she might never have seen him.

With the thought of him came the sudden overpowering wish to hear his voice—clear, deliberate, convincing—which sometimes seized her in spite of every effort to banish it from her mind, and of which she was utterly, profoundly ashamed, the recurrence of which was infinitely painful. She must fill her heart with other thoughts, other objects. "Life is serious enough (the life which lies before me especially) to crowd out these follies. Why do I increase its gloom with imaginary troubles?"

Miss Payne, returning from her dinner, found Katherine sitting up for her, apparently occupied with a book, and in the little confidential talk which ensued Katherine told her of Rachel Trant's intention of consulting Mr. Newton respecting her plans for increasing her business with a view to assisting her benefactress.

Miss Payne received this communication in silence; but after a moment's thought observed, in a grave, approving tone; "You have not been deceived in her, then. I really believe Rachel Trant is a young woman of principle and integrity."

"Yes, I have always thought so." Then, after a pause, she resumed: "I wonder what reply I shall have from Ada to-morrow—no, the day after to-morrow."

"Do not worry yourself about it. She will make herself disagreeable, of course; but it is just a trouble to be got through with. Go to bed, my dear; try to sleep and to forget. You are looking fagged and worn."

But Katherine could not help dwelling upon the picture her imagination presented of the morrow's breakfast-time at Castleford; of the dismay with which her letter would be read; of Ada's tears and Colonel Ormonde's rage; of the torrent of advice which would be poured upon her. Then what decision would Colonel Ormonde come to about the boys? He would banish them to some cheap out-of-the-way school. It was impossible to say what he would do.

Naturally she did not sleep well or continuously, disturbed as she was by such thoughts—such uneasy anticipations—and her eyes showed the results of a bad night when she met Miss Payne in the morning.

About eleven o'clock Katherine came quickly into Miss Payne's particular sitting-room, where she made up her accounts and studied her bank-book.

"What is it?" asked that lady, looking up, and perceiving that Katherine was agitated.

"A telegram from Ada. They will be here about five this afternoon."

"Well, never mind. There is nothing in that to scare you."

"I am not scared, but I wish that interview was over."

"Yes; I shall be glad when it is; though I shall not obtrude on his Royal Highness. (I suppose he is coming as well as she.) I shall be in the house, so you can send for me if you want me."

"Thank you, Miss Payne; you are very good to me. I feel that I ought not to stay here crowding up your house."

"Nonsense! I am not in such a hurry to find a new inmate. I shall not like any one as well as you. I wish I could give up and live in a neat little cottage, but I cannot. Indeed, if you think I may, I should like to mention this deplorable change in your fortunes to Mrs. Needham. She knows every one, and can bring all sorts of people together if she likes."

"By all means, Miss Payne. There is no reason why you should not."

And after a little more conversation Katherine went back to her occupation of arranging her belongings and wardrobe, that when the moment of parting came she might be quite ready to go.

To wait patiently for that which you know will be painful is torture of no mean order. It was somewhat curtailed for Katherine on that memorable day, for Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde arrived half an hour sooner than she expected.

They had driven direct from the station to Wilton Street, and Katherine saw at a glance that both were greatly disturbed.

"Katherine, what is the meaning of your dreadful letter?" cried Mrs. Ormonde, without any previous greeting, while the Colonel barked a gruff "How d'ye do?"

"My letter, Ada, I am sorry to say, meant what it said," returned Katherine, sadly. "Do sit down, and let us discuss what is best to be done."

"What can be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, bursting into tears.

"For God's sake, don't let us have tears and nonsense," said Colonel Ormonde, roughly. "Tell me, Katherine, is it possible Newton means to give in to this impostor? Why does he not demand proper proof, and throw the whole business into chancery?"

"I am sure Mr. Newton could not doubt George Liddell's story. He could not go back from his own involuntary recognition, nor could I pretend to doubt what I believe is true."

"Pooh! that is high-flown bosh. You need not say what you do or do not believe. All you have to do is to throw the onus of proof on this fellow."

"It is all too dreadful," said Mrs. Ormonde, in tearful tones. "To think that you will allow yourself to be robbed, and permit the dear boys to be reduced to beggary, for a mere crochet—it is too bad. I never will believe this horrid man is the person he represents himself to be; never."

"I wish you would go and speak to Mr. Newton. He would explain the folly of resisting."

"And how do you know that he is not bribed?" returned Mrs. Ormonde, with a little sob. "Every one knows what dreadful wretches lawyers are. And though I dare say you meant well, Katherine, but having induced us to believe you would provide for the boys, it is a little hard—indeed very hard—on Colonel Ormonde to have them thrown back on his hands, and it is really your duty to do something to relieve us."

"Back on my hands!" echoed the Colonel. "I'll not take them back. Why should I? I have been completely swindled in the whole business. I am the last man to support another fellow's brats. Why didn't that old lawyer of yours ascertain whether your uncle's son was dead or alive before he let you pounce upon the property and play Lady Bountiful with what did not belong to you?" And Colonel Ormonde paced the room in a fury, all chivalrous tradition melting away in the fierce heat of disappointed greed.

"You have no right to find fault with me," cried Katherine, stung to self-assertion. "I did well and generously by your children and yourself, Ada (I must say so, as you seem to forget it). There is more cause to sympathize with me in the reverse that has befallen me than to throw the blame of what is inevitable on one who is a greater sufferer than yourselves. Do you not know that the worst pang my bitterest enemy—had I one—could inflict is to feel I must give up the boys? Matters are still unsettled, but if my cousin can be induced to deal mercifully with me, and not absorb my little all to liquidate what is legally due to him, I will gladly keep Cis and Charlie, and give them what I have, rather than throw them on Colonel Ormonde's charity. I am deeply sorry for your disappointment, but I have done nothing to irritate Colonel Ormonde into forgetting what is due to a lady and his wife's benefactress." Katherine was thoroughly roused, and stood, head erect, with glowing eyes, and soft red lips curling with disdain.

"I always said she was violent; didn't' I, Duke?" sobbed Mrs. Ormonde. "Katherine, you do amaze me."

"There is no denying she is a plucky one," he returned, with a gruff laugh. "I too deny that you should consider it a misfortune for the boys to come under my care. I owe a duty to my own son, and am not going to play the generous step-father to his hurt. If you can't come to advantageous terms with this—this impostor, as I verily believe he is. I'll send the boys to the Bluecoat School or some such institution. They have turned out very good men before this."

"I am sure we could expect no more from Colonel Ormonde, and when you think that I shall be entirely dependent on him for"—sob—"my very gowns"—sob—"and—and little outings—and" a total break down.

"If I am penniless," said Katherine, controlling her inclination to scream aloud with agony, "I must accept your offer—any offer that will provide for my nephews. If not, I will devote myself and what I have to them. I really wish you would go and see Mr. Newton; he will make you understand matters better than I can; and as you have come in such a spirit, I should be glad if you would leave me. I cannot look on you as friends, considering how you have spoken."

"By George!" interrupted the Colonel, much astonished. "This is giving us the turn-out."

"What ingratitude!" cried his wife, with pious indignation, as she rose and tied on her veil.

Her further utterance was arrested, for the door was thrown open, and Francois announced, "Mr. Errington."

A great stillness fell upon them as Errington walked in, cool, collected, well dressed, as usual.

"Very glad to meet you here, Mrs. Ormonde," he said, when he had shaken hands with Katherine. "Miss Liddell has need of all her friends at such a crisis. How do, Colonel; you look the incarnation of healthy country life."

"Ah—ah; I'm very well, thank you," somewhat confusedly. "Just been trying to persuade Miss Liddell here to dispute this preposterous claim. I don't believe this man is the real thing."

"I am afraid he is," gravely; "I know him, for John Liddell was a friend of my father's in early life, and I feel satisfied this man is his son."

"You do. Well, I shall speak to my own lawyers and Newton about it: one can't give up everything at the first demand to stand and deliver."

"No; neither is it wise to throw good money after bad. We were just going to Mr. Newton's, so I'll say good-morning. Till to-morrow, Katherine. I'll report what Newton says."

"Good-morning, Mr. Errington," said Mrs. Ormonde, pulling herself together, and her veil down. "This is a terrible business! I feel it as acutely as if it were myself—I mean my own case. I am sure it is so good of you to come and see Katherine. I hope you will give us a few days at Castleford." So murmuring and with a painful smile, she hastened downstairs after her husband.

Then Errington closed the door and returned to where Katherine stood, white and trembling, in the middle of the room. "I am afraid your kinsfolk have been but Job's comforters," he said, looking earnestly into her eyes, his own so grave and compassionate that her heart grew calmer under their gaze. "You are greatly disturbed."

"They have been very cruel," she murmured. "Yet, not knowing all you do, they could not know how cruel. They are so angry because what I tried to do for the boys proved a failure. They little dream how guilty I feel for having created this confusion. If I am obliged to give up Cis and Charlie to—to Colonel Ormonde, their lot will be a miserable one!" She spoke brokenly, and her eyes brimmed over, the drops hanging on her long lashes.

"Sit down, Miss Liddell. I am deeply grieved to see you so depressed. I have ventured to call because I have a pin's point of hope for you, which I trust will excuse me for presenting myself, as I know you would rather not see me."

"To-day I am glad to see you. I should always be glad to see you but—but for my own conscience. Do not misunderstand me." With a sudden impulse she stretched out her fair soft hand to him. He took and held it, wondering to find that although so cold when first he touched it, it grew quickly warm in his grasp.

"Thank you," he said, gently, and still held her hand; "you give me infinite pleasure. Now"—releasing her—"for my excuse. Among my poor father's papers were a few letters of very old date from John Liddell, in which was occasional mention of his boy. It struck me these might be a modus operandi, and enable me approach a difficult subject. I contrived to meet your cousin at Mr. Newton's, and he permitted me to call. I gave him the letters, and we became—not friends—but friendly at least." Here his face brightened. "We began to talk of you, and I saw that he was bitter and vindictive against you to an extraordinary degree. He grew communicative, and I was able to represent to him the cruelty and unreasonableness of his conduct. At last—only to-day—he suddenly exclaimed, 'How much of my money has that nice young lady made away with?' I could not, of course, give him any particulars, but having learned from himself that he had amassed a good deal of money himself, and that with the addition of your fortune (I cannot help calling it yours) he would really be a man of wealth, I ventured to suggest that he should not demand the refunding of what you had used while in possession of the property, and showed him what a bad impression it would create in the minds of those among whom he evidently wishes to make a place for himself. He thought for a few moments, and then said he would consider the matter and consult his legal advisers before coming to a decision, adding that he did not understand how it was that they as well as myself were on your side. Then I left him, and I feel a strong impression that he will lay aside his worst intentions. I only trust he will spare whatever balance may stand to your credit with your banker."

"You have indeed done me a great service," cried Katherine, "If George Liddell does as you suggest I shall not be afraid to face the future. I shall surely be able to find some employment myself; then I need not importune Colonel Ormonde for my nephews."

"He will surely not leave them without means," cried Errington.

"I am not sure. They have no legal claim upon him, and he is very angry with me for causing such confusion, though—"

—"Though," interrupted Errington, "your only error was over-generosity."

"My only error, Mr. Errington!"—casting down her eyes and interlacing her fingers nervously. "If he only knew!"

"But he does not; he never shall!" exclaimed Errington, with animation, drawing unconsciously nearer. "That is a secret between you and me. None shall ever know our secret. All I ask is that you will forgive me for my unfortunate precipitancy in destroying the means of saving you, which you had placed in my hands—that you will forgive me, and let me be your friend. It is so painful to see you shrink from me as you do."

"Can you wonder, guilty as I feel myself to be? But if you so far overlook my evil deeds as to think me worth your friendship, I am glad and grateful to accept it. As to forgiveness, what have I to forgive?—your haste to save me from the possibility of discovery?"

"Then," said Errington, who had gazed for a moment in silence on his companion, whose face was slightly turned from him, every line of her pliant figure, from the graceful drooping head to the point of her shoe peeping from under her soft gray dress, expressed a sort of pathetic humility, "will you give me some idea of your plans, if you have any?"

"They are very vague. I have a small income apart from my uncle's property. I earnestly hope it will be enough to educate the boys. Then I must try to find employment—something that will enable me to provide for myself. Miss Payne is already looking out for me. That is all I can think of."

"It is a tremendous undertaking for a young girl like you," said Errington, looking down in deep thought. "But I think I understand that the cruelest trial of all would be to part with the boys. Still it is not wise to allow Mrs. Ormonde to thrust her sons on you, though I never can believe that Ormonde could act so dastardly a part as to refuse to do his part in maintaining them. There, again, the fear of what society would say will do more than a sense of justice or honor. I don't believe Ormonde will dare refuse to contribute his quota to the support of his wife's sons."

"Perhaps not. I wish I could do without it. But though Ada was harsh and unreasonable to-day, I am sorry for her. It must be dreadful to be tied to a man who looks on you as a burden."

"She will manage him. Their natures are admirably suited. Neither is too exalted. And Mrs. Ormonde has established herself very firmly as mistress of Castleford and the Colonel."

"I hope so." There was a short silence. Then Errington said, in a low tone, looking kindly into her face, "I trust you do not feel too despondent as regards the future."

"Far from it," returned Katherine, with a brief bright smile. "If only I can bring up my dear boys without too great privations, and fit them to work their way in life! From my short experience I should say that riches can buy little true happiness. Extreme poverty is terrible and degrading. Nor can money alone confer any true joys."

"So I have found," said Errington, thoughtfully; "and I can see that to you too the finery and distractions which wealth gathers together are mere dust heaps."

There was a pause, broken by the appearance of Miss Payne, who had only just discovered that Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde had left, and was not aware that Katherine had another visitor. After a little further and somewhat desultory conversation Errington took leave; nor was Katherine sorry, for the presence of Miss Payne seemed to have set them as far apart as ever, and how near they had drawn for a few moments!

"So that is Mr. Errington!" said Miss Payne, when the door had closed upon him. "He has never been here before?" The tone was interrogative.

"Mr. Errington has some acquaintance with George Liddell," returned Katherine, "and has very kindly done his best to dissuade him from claiming the money I have expended."

"How very good of him! I am sure I trust he will succeed!" exclaimed Miss Payne. "Now tell me how did Colonel Ormonde and your sister-in-law behave?"

Whereupon Katherine recounted all that had been said. Many and cynical were Miss Payne's remarks on the occasion, but Katherine scarcely heard her. That Errington should take so deep an interest in her, should persist in wishing to be her friend, was infinitely sweet and consoling. He was transparently true, and she did not doubt for a moment that he was sincere in all he said. Still she could not forget the sense of humiliation his presence always inflicted. It was always delightful to speak to him, and to hear him speak. What would she not give to be able to stand upright before him and dare to assert herself? How silent and dull and commonplace she must appear! not a bit natural or—She would think no more of him. Why was his face ever before her eyes? She would not be haunted in that way.

Here Bertie Payne's entrance created a diversion, which was most welcome. He was looking white and ill, as though suffering from some mental strain, Katherine observed, and then remembered that he had been very silent and grave of late; but he replied cheerfully to her inquiries, and exerted himself to do the agreeable during dinner, for which he staid.

Katherine almost hoped for a summons from Mr. Newton next day, also for some communication from Mrs. Ormonde, but none reached her. Still she possessed her soul in patience, fortified by the recollection of her interview with her new friend.

It was wet, and Katherine did not venture out, having a slight cold. She tried to read, to write, to play, but she could not give her attention to anything. It was an anxious crisis of her fate, and the sense of her isolation pressed upon her more heavily than ever. She really had no family ties. Friends were kind, but she had no claim on them or they on her. Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde had ceased to exist for her. How would her future life be colored? From consecutive thought she passed to vague reverie, from which she was glad to be roused by the return of Miss Payne, who never staid in for any weather.

"Where do you think I have been?" asked Miss Payne, untying her bonnet strings as she sat down.

"How can I guess? Your wanderings are various."

"I went to see Mrs. Needham, and I am very glad I did. I found her just bursting with curiosity. All sorts of reports have got about respecting your cousin and your loss of fortune, and she was enchanted to get the whole truth from me. Besides, she has just been applied to by the friends of a girl only sixteen to find a proper chaperon. She is full of enthusiasm about us both, and begged me, and you too, to dine with her the day after to-morrow to meet a Miss Bradley, the relative or friend of the sixteen-year-old. We are to look at each other, and are supposed to be in total ignorance of each other's identity. Mrs. Needham delights in small plots and transparent mysteries."

"And why am I to go?" asked Katherine, carelessly.

"To make a fourth, and talk to the hostess while I discourse with Miss Bradley."

"Very well; I will come."

"Any further news to-day?"

"Not a word; not a line."



CHAPTER XXVII.

A DINNER AT MRS. NEEDHAM'S.

Mrs. Needham was a very important at personage in her own estimation, and very popular with a large circle of acquaintances. Most of them thought she was a widow, and only a few old friends were aware that away in a distant colony Needham masculine was hiding his diminished head from creditors of various kinds and penalties of many descriptions, not in penitence, but with as much of enjoyment as could be extracted from the simple materials of antipodean life. Having taken with him all the cash he could lay hands upon, his deserted wife was left to do battle alone on a small income which was her own, and fortunately secured to her on her marriage.

She was much too energetic to sit still when she might work and earn money. The editor of a provincial paper, a friend of early days, gave her space in his columns for a weekly letter, and an introduction to a London confrere. On this slender foundation she built her humble fortunes. There were, in truth, few happier women in London. Brimful of interest in all the undertakings (and their name was legion) in which she was concerned, kind and unselfish, though quite free from sentiment, her life was full of movement and color. She had an enormous capacity for absorbing the marvellous, quite uninfluenced by the natural shrewdness with which she acted in all ordinary matters. In a bright surface way she was clever and full of ideas—ideas which others took up and fructified—from which Mrs. Needham herself derived no benefit beyond the pleasure of imparting them. She was constantly taken in by barefaced impostors, yet at times, and in an accidental way, hit on wonderfully accurate estimates of persons whom the general public credited with widely different qualities.

She had a nice little old-fashioned house in Kensington, with a pretty garden, just large enough to allow of visitors being well wet in rainy weather between the garden gate and the hall door. This diminutive mansion was crammed with curios, specimens of china, of carved wood, of Japanese lacquer—these much rarer than at present. It was a pleasant abode withal; a kindly, generous, happy-go-lucky spirit pervaded it. Few coming to seek help there were sent empty away, and the owner's earnest consideration was ready for all who sought her advice. It was real joy to her to entertain her friends in an easy, unceremonious way, and her friends were equally pleased to accept her hospitality.

On the present occasion Mrs. Needham was deeply interested in her expected guests. Katherine Liddell had pleased her from the first, practical and unsentimental as she was. She was disposed to weave a little romance round the bright sympathetic girl, who listened so graciously to her schemes and projects, whose brightness had under it a strain of tender sadness, which gave an indescribable subtle charm to her manner. Miss Payne she had known more or less for a considerable time, and regarded as a worthy, useful woman; while her third guest was the only child of the wealthy publisher George Bradley, the owner of that new and flourishing publication, The Piccadilly Review, wherein those brilliant articles on "Our Colonial System," "Modern European Politics," etc., supposed to be from the pen of Miles Errington, appeared.

"A partie carree of ladies does not seem to promise much," said Mrs. Needham, when she had greeted Miss Payne and "her young friend," into which position Katherine had sunk; "but unless I could have three or four men it is better to have none; besides we want to talk of business, and men under such circumstances always exclude us, so I don't see why we should admit them. Miss Bradley—Miss Payne, Miss Liddell, of whom you have heard me speak."

Miss Bradley rose from the sofa, where she was half reclining beside a bright wood fire, a tall stately figure in a long pale blue plush dress, cut low in front, and tied loosely with a knot of blue satin ribbon, nestling among the rich yellow white lace which fell from the edge of the bodice. She was extremely fair, even colorless, with abundant but somewhat sandy hair. Her features were regular and marked, a well-shaped head was gracefully set on a firm white column-like throat, and her eyes were clear and cold when in repose, but darkened and lit up when speaking of whatever roused and interested her. Indeed, she looked strong and stern when silent.

"I am very pleased to meet you," she said, in a full, pleasant voice. "I have often heard of you from Mrs. Needham, and I think you know a friend of mine—Mr. Errington."

"Yes; I know him," returned Katherine, feeling her face aflame.

"I have heard of you too," continued Miss Bradley, addressing Miss Payne, "from several mutual friends, though we have never happened to meet before. I think you had just left Rome with Miss Jennings when I arrived there some four years ago."