De Burgh did not prolong his absence; he returned to Castleford while Katherine was still in attendance on the little invalid; but he found his stay neither pleasant nor profitable. Katherine was far too much occupied nursing her nephew to give any time or attention to her impatient admirer.

"Miss Liddell is a peculiar specimen of her sex," he growled, in his usual candid and unaffected manner, as he and Colonel Ormonde sat alone over their wine. "She never leaves those brats. She must know that it's not every girl I should take the trouble of teaching, and yet she throws over each appointment I make. Does she intend to adopt your wife's boys? Adopted sons are an appendage no man would like to accept with a bride, be she ever so well endowed."

"Oh, she will forget them as soon as she falls in love! You must carry on the siege more vigorously."

"How the deuce are you to do it when you never get within hail of the fortress? There is something peculiar about Katherine Liddell I can't quite make out. If she were a commonplace woman, angular, squinting, or generally plain, I could go in and win and collar the cash without hesitation, but somehow or other I can't go into the affair in this spirit. I want the woman as well as the money."

"Well, I see no reason why you shouldn't have both. Your faintness of heart never lost you any fair lady, I am sure, Jack."

"Perhaps not." And he smoked meditatively for a minute or two.

"Then you will not leave us to-morrow?" said Ormonde.

"When does she go up to town?" asked De Burgh.

"On Monday, I believe."

"Then I'll run up the day after to-morrow. Old De Burgh has just come back from the Riviera. I'll go and do the dutiful, and tell him I have found a suitable partner for my joys and sorrows; it will score to my credit. He doesn't half like me, you know. Then I'll have a dozen better chances to cultivate Miss Liddell in town, and away from your nursery, than I have here. Give me her address. She is a frank, unconventional creature, and won't mind coming out with me alone."

"Very true. Mrs. Ormonde has persuaded me to take her to town for a couple of months; so we'll be there to back you up."

"Good! Meanwhile I will do my best for my own hand. If she starts on Monday, I'll pay my respects to the peerless one by the time she has swallowed her luncheon on Tuesday," said De Burgh, with a harsh laugh.

Thus it came to pass that De Burgh's card was amongst those preserved for Katherine's inspection; but she postponed her departure first to Wednesday, next to Saturday, and De Burgh grew savagely impatient when Colonel Ormonde informed him of these changes in a private note.

When at last she did arrive, Miss Payne was struck by the look of renewed hope and cheerfulness in her young friend's face. Her movements even were more alert, and her voice had lost its languid tone.

"I thought you would find it difficult to get away," said Miss Payne, as she assisted her to remove her travelling dress. "But I am very pleased to see you again, and to see you looking more like yourself."

"I feel more like my old self," returned Katherine, actually kissing Miss Payne—a kind of treatment exceedingly new to her.

"In fact, I am full of a project which will, I hope, make me much happier. I will tell you all about it after dinner, if we are alone. Your advice will be of great value to me."

"Such as it is, I shall be glad to give it; though I do not suppose you'll take it unless it suits your wishes."

"Perhaps not," said Katherine, laughing; "but I think it will."

"She is going to marry some fortune-hunting scamp," thought Miss Payne. "I was afraid no good would come of her visit to that little dressy dolly sister-in-law of hers." She only said, "Dinner will be ready in half an hour, and we shall be quite alone."

Then she went quickly down stairs to her brother, who was gazing out of the window, but not seeing what he looked at.

"You can't dine here to-day, Bertie," said Miss Payne, abruptly, as she entered the room.

"And why not?"

"Because she wants to have some confidential conversation with me after dinner, and we must be alone."

"Have you any idea what it will be about?"

"No; and I am astonished at your putting the question. You may come in after church to-morrow if you like."

"Thank you. I shall be rather late, as I am going to an open-air service beyond Whitechapel."

"Well, I do hope you'll get something to eat after. Are you going to preach?"

"No. I seldom preach. I haven't the gift of eloquence."

"Which means you have a little common-sense left. Really, Gilbert, for a man of thirty-five, or nearly thirty-five, you are too credulous."

"It is my nature to be so," he returned, laughing. "Well, good-by to you. It is really unkind to turn me out in this unceremonious fashion." So saying, with his usual sweet-tempered compliance he departed.

"What a good boy he is!" said Miss Payne to herself, looking at the grate, while by a dual brain action she made a brief calculation as to how much longer she must burn coal. "He ought to have been a girl. Why don't rich young women see that he is the very stuff to make a pleasant husband, instead of those monsters of strength and determination that fools of women make gods of, and themselves door mats for, and often find to be only big pumpkins after all?"

Miss Payne's anticipations were of the gloomiest when, after their quickly despatched dinner, she settled herself between the fire and window with her favorite tatting, drawing up the knots with vicious energy. She opened proceedings by an interrogative "Well?" and closed her mouth with a snap.

"Well, my dear Miss Payne," began Katherine, who had settled herself comfortably in a corner of the sofa, "I have an important plan in my mind, and I want your co-operation. I should have written to you about it, only I waited to get Colonel Ormonde's consent."

"It's a man!" ejaculated Miss Payne to herself.

"To begin: I was not at all satisfied with the boys when I first went to Castleford. They were not exactly neglected, but they were quite secluded. Mrs. Ormonde scarcely saw them, and their governess or attendant was not at all lady-like; she speaks with a London accent and misplaces her h's; altogether she is not the sort of person I should have placed with the boys. Then the poor little fellows clung to me and monopolized me as if I had been their mother; they made me feel like one. Moreover, I seemed to see my own dear mother and hear her voice when they spoke to me. She loved them so much!"

Katherine paused suddenly, but almost immediately resumed: "The youngest, Charlie, is not yet seven, and is very delicate. He has had rather a sharp attack of bronchitis. I am very anxious about him. How I want to take them to the sea-side next month, and to keep them there all the summer, and I want your help to find a nice place. I know nothing of the English coast. More than this: I feel I could not get on without you, so you must come with us. Suppose, dear Miss Payne, we take a house with a garden near the sea, and you let this one? I will gladly pay all extra cost, while our original agreement, as far as I myself am concerned, shall hold good."

Miss Payne listened attentively to this long speech, the expression of her countenance relaxing; but she did not reply at once.

"I think," she said, after a moment's thought, "that you are exceedingly liberal, but I am not sure you are wise. As far as I am concerned, I should like your plan very much. I do not profess to be fond of children, but I dare say these little boys would not interfere with me. As regards yourself, if you keep the children for the whole summer, it is possible Mrs. Ormonde might be inclined to leave them with you altogether, and this would create a burden for you—a burden you are by no means called upon to bear. It is a dangerous experiment."

"Not to me," returned Katherine, thoughtfully. "In fact it is a consummation for which I devoutly wish. I should like to adopt my nephews."

"That would certainly be foolish. It would not be kind to the children, Katherine (as you wish me to call you). In the course of a year or two you will marry, and then the creatures who had learned to love you and look on you as a mother would be again motherless. Do not take them from their natural guardian."

"What you say is very reasonable. You cannot know how certain I feel that I shall not marry. However, let us leave all that to arrange itself in the future; let us think of the present. Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde are coming up to town, for two or three months, in May, and I do not like the idea of Cis and Charlie being left behind; so will you help me, my dear Miss Payne? Shall you mind a spring and summer in some quiet sea-side place?"

Again Miss Payne reflected before she spoke. "I should rather like it: and your idea of letting this house is a good one. Yes, I shall be happy to assist you as far as I can. The first question is, where shall we go?"

"That, I am sure, you know best."

An interesting disquisition ensued. Miss Payne rejected Bournemouth, Weymouth, Worthing, Brighton, and Folkestone, for what seemed to Katherine sufficient reason, and finally recommended Sandbourne, a quiet and little-known nook on the Dorsetshire coast, as being mild but not relaxing, not too near nor too far from town, and possessing fine sands, while the country round was less bare and flat than what usually lies near the coast.

Finally the "friends in council" decided to go down and look at the place. "For," observed Miss Payne, "if we are to go away the beginning of next month, we have little more than a fortnight before us."

"By all means," cried Katherine, starting up. "Let us go to-morrow; we might 'do' the place in a day, and come back the next. You are really a dear, to fall into my views so readily."

"To-morrow? Oh! that's a little too fast; the day after, if you like. Now I wish you would look at these cards; they have all been left for you in the last few days."

Katherine took and looked over them with some running comments. "Mrs. Tracy! I shall be quite glad to see them again; they were always so kind and pleasant. Lady Mary Vincent! I did not think she would call so soon; I think I must go and see her to-morrow. I rather like her niece, Lady Alice Mordaunt; she is a nice, gentle girl. She is to be married very soon to a man who interested me a good deal; such a thoughtful, clever man, but rather provokingly composed and perfect—a sort of person who never makes a mistake."

"He must be a remarkable person," said Miss Payne.

"He will soon be in Parliament, and has some of the qualities which make a statesman, I imagine. I shall watch his progress." Here Katherine took up a card, and while she read the inscription, "John Fitzstephen de Burgh," a slight smile crept round her lips. "I had no idea he was in town, or that he would take the trouble of calling on me so soon. I thought he was too utterly offended."

"Why?" asked Miss Payne, looking at her curiously.

"He is rather ill-tempered, I fancy, and he was vexed because I preferred staying with Charlie to going out with him: he offered to teach me how to drive; so I believe, like the rich young man in the gospel, he went away in desperation."

"Hum! Is he a rich young man?"

"He is not young, and I am not sure about his being rich. He has a hunting-lodge and horses, yet I don't fancy he is rich. He is a sort of relation of the Ormondes."

"I suspect he is a spendthrift, and would like your money."

"Oh, very likely; but, my dear Miss Payne, you need not warn me; I am quite sufficiently inclined to believe that the men who show me attention are thinking more of what I have than what I am. Believe me it is not an agreeable frame of mind. Mr. De Burgh is a strange sort of character. He amuses me; he is not a bit like a modern man. He doesn't seem to think it worth while to conceal what he feels or thinks. There is an odd well-bred roughness about him, if I may use such an expression; but I greatly prefer him to Colonel Ormonde."

"Oh, you do? Colonel Ormonde is just an average man," added Miss Payne.

"I should hope the general average is higher; but I must not be ill-natured. He has always been very kind to me."

This was a pleasant interlude to Katherine. She had succeeded in hushing her heart to rest for a while, in banishing the thoughts which had long tormented her. Nothing had comforted and satisfied her as did this project of adopting her nephews. It is true she had not yet announced it, but in her own mind she resolved that once they were under her wing, she would not let them go again, unless indeed something quite unforeseen occurred; nor did she anticipate any difficulties with their mother. She would thus secure a natural legitimate interest in life, and make a home, which to a girl of her disposition was essential. Yet she knew well that in renouncing the idea of marriage she was denying one of the strongest necessities of her nature. The love and companionship of a man in whom she believed, for whom she could be ambitious, who would link her with the life and movement of the outer world, who would be the complement of her own being, was a dream of delight. Not that she felt in the least unable to stand alone, or fancied she was too delicate to take care of herself, but life without the love of another self could never be full and perfect. She was too true a woman not to value deeply the tenderness of a man; yet she had firmly resolved in justice to herself, in fairness to any possible husband, to renounce that crown of woman's existence. It was the only atonement she could make. Well, at least her loving care of these dear little boys, who were in point of fact motherless, would in some degree expiate her evil deed, and would keep her heart warm and her mind healthy.

[**extra space]

Possessed of the true magic, "money," obstacles faded away. The expedition to Sandbourne was most successful. Katherine was brighter than Miss Payne had ever seen her before. The day was sunny, the place looked cheerful and picturesque. It lay under a wooded hill, ending in a bold rocky point, which sheltered it and a wide bay from the easterly winds. A splendid stretch of golden sands offered a playground for the racing waves, and an old tower crowned an islet near the opposite point of the land, which there lay low, and was covered with gorse and heather.

There was an objectionable row of lodging-houses, against which must be entered a low, red-brick, ivy-grown inn, old-fashioned, picturesque, and comfortable. One or two villas stood in their own grounds but were occupied, and one, evidently older was shut up.

Perhaps because it was inaccessible, perhaps because it had a pleasant outlook across the bay to the island and tower at its western extremity, Katherine at once determined it was the very place to suit them, and made her way to the local house agent to see what could be done toward securing it. Cliff Cottage was not on his books, said the agent; but if the lady wished "he would apply to the owner, who had gone with his wife in search of health to the Riviera. In the meantime there is Amanda Villa, at the other end of Beach Terrace, very comfortable and elegantly furnished"—pointing to a glaring white edifice with a Belvedere tower in would-be Italian style. "I don't think you could find anything better." But the aspect of Amanda Villa did not please either lady, so they returned to Cliff Cottage: and remarking a thin curl of blue smoke from one of the chimneys, they ventured to make their way to a side entrance, where their knocking was answered by an old deaf caretaker, who, for a consideration, permitted them to inspect the house. It proved to be all Katherine wished. Though the furniture was scanty and worn, it was clean and well kept, and "We can easily get what is necessary," she concluded, with the sense of power which always goes with a full purse.

"Let us go back to the agent and get the address of the owner."

"Better make your offer through him," returned Miss Payne, and Katherine complied.

The days which succeeded seemed very long. Katherine had taken a fancy to the quaint pretty abode, and was impatient to be settled there with her boys. There was a "preparatory school for young gentlemen," which was an additional attraction to Sandbourne, both children being extremely ignorant even for their tender years; and Katherine was greatly opposed to Colonel Ormonde's intention of sending Cecil away to a boarding-school. She wished him to have some preliminary training before he was plunged into the difficulties of a large boarding-school. To Colonel Ormonde her will was law, and if only she could get the house she wanted, all would go well.

Of course Katherine lost no time in visiting her protegee Rachel. She had written to her during her absence to let her feel that she was not forgotten; and the replies were not only well written and expressed, but showed a degree of intelligence above the average.

When Katherine entered the room where Rachel sat at work she was touched and delighted at the sudden brightening of Rachel's sunken eyes, the joyous flush that rose to her cheek.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I did not expect you so soon. How good of you to come!" She placed a chair, and in reply to Katherine's friendly question, "How have you been going on?" Rachel gave an encouraging account of herself. Mrs. Needham had introduced her to two families, both of whom wished her to work in the house, which, though infinitely disagreeable to her, she did not like to refuse.

"Perhaps," she added, "the counter-irritation was good for me, for I feel more braced up. And of all your many benefits, dear Miss Liddell, nothing has done me so much good as the books you sent me, except the sight of yourself. Do not think I am exaggerating, but I am a mere machine, resigned to work because I must not die, save when I see you and speak to you; then I feel I can live—that I have something to live for, to show I am not unworthy of your trust in me. Perhaps time will heal even such wounds as mine. Is it not terrible to try and live without hope?"

"But you must hope, Rachel. You are not alone. I feel truly, deeply interested in you; believe me, I will always be your friend. You are looking better, but I want to see your eyes less hollow and your mouth less sad. We are both young, and life has many lights and shades for us both, so far as we can anticipate."

A long and confidential conversation ensued, in the course of which Katherine quite forgot there was any difference of position between herself and the humble dressmaker whom her bounty of purse and heart had restored.



CHAPTER XVIII.

"MRS. NEEDHAM."

When Katherine returned that afternoon she found Miss Payne was not alone. On the sofa opposite to her sat a lady—a large, well-dressed lady—with bright black eager eyes, and a high color. She held open on her lap a neat black leather bag, from which she had taken some papers, and was speaking quickly, in loud dictatorial tones, when Katherine came in.

"Here is Miss Liddell," said Miss Payne.

"Ah! I am very glad," cried the large lady, starting up and letting the bag fall, much of its contents scattering right and left.

"Mrs. Needham, Miss Liddell," said Miss Payne, with the sort of rigid accent which Katherine knew expressed disapprobation.

"Oh, thank you—don't trouble!" exclaimed Mrs. Needham, as Katherine politely bent down to collect the letters, note-book, memorandum, etc. "So sorry! I am too careless in small matters. Now, my dear Miss Liddell, I must explain myself. Mr. Payne and I are deeply interested in the success of a bazar which I am trying to organize, and he suggested that I should see you and make our objects thoroughly clear."

With much fluency and distinctness she proceeded to describe the origin and progress of the work she advocated, showing the necessity for a new wing to the "Children's Refuge," and entreating Katherine's assistance at the bazar.

This Katherine gently but firmly declined. "I shall be most happy to send you a check, but more I cannot undertake," she said.

"Well, that is very good of you; and in any case I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance. Mr. Payne has told me how ready you are to help in all charitable undertakings. Now in an ordinary way I don't do much in this line; my energies have been directed to another channel. I am not what is generally called a religious woman; I am too broad in my views to please the orthodox; but, at the same time, religion is in our present stage essential."

"I am sure religion is much obliged to you," observed Miss Payne. "How do you and my brother get on?"

"Remarkably well. I think him rather a fanatic; he thinks me a pagan. But we both have common-sense enough to see that each honestly wishes to help suffering humanity, and on that broad platform we meet. Mr. Payne tells me you don't know much of London, Miss Liddell. I can help you to see some of its more interesting sides. I shall be most happy, though I am a very busy woman. I am a journalist, and my time is not my own."

"Indeed?" cried Katherine. "You mean you write for newspapers?"

"Yes; that is, I get what crumbs fall from the pressmen's table. They get the best work and the best pay; but I can work as well as most of them, and sometimes mine goes in in place of what some idle, pleasure-loving scamp has neglected. Let me see"—pulling out her watch—"five minutes to four. I must not stay. I have to look in at Mrs. Rayner's studio; she has a reception, and will want a mention of it. Then there are Sir Charles Goodman's training schools for deaf-mutes and the new Art Photography Company's rooms to run through before I go to the House of Commons to do my 'Bird's-eye View' letter for the Australian mail to-morrow."

"My dear Mrs. Needham, you take my breath away!" exclaimed Katherine. "I am sure you could show me more of London—I mean what I should like to see—than any one else."

"Very well. Let me know when you come back to town, and you shall hear a debate if you like. I am not a society woman, but I have the entree to most places. Now good-morning—good-morning. You see your agreeable conversation has made me forget the time." And shaking hands cordially, she hastened away.

"Our agreeable conversation," repeated Miss Payne, with a somewhat cynical accent. "I wonder how many words you and I uttered! Why she makes me stupid. Really Gilbert ought not to inflict such a tornado on us."

"I like her," said Katherine; "there is something kind and true about her. I should like to see some of the places she goes to and the work she does. She seems happy enough, too. I must not forget to write to her and send that check I promised."

"Hem! If you give right and left you'll not have much left for yourself," growled Miss Payne. Katherine laughed.

"Oh, by-the-way," resumed her chaperon, "I forgot to tell you that Colonel Ormonde arrived, shortly after you went out, with a large basket of flowers. He was vexed at missing you. He came up about some business, and wanted to take you to see some one. However, he could not come back. I can't say that I think he is well mannered. He was quite rough and brusque, and asked with such an ill-bred sneer if you were off on any private business with my brother."

"I can't help thinking that he was annoyed because I appointed Mr. Payne co-trustee with Mr. Newton to my deed of gift," said Katherine, thoughtfully. "But I know I could not have chosen a better man."

"Well, I believe so," returned his sister, graciously. "He is coming to dinner, so you can give him your check."

It was a great day for Cis and Charlie when they arrived in London to stay with "auntie," who was at the station to receive and convey them to Wilton Street.

Charlie still looked pale and thin enough to warrant a general treatment of cuddling and coddling calculated to satisfy any affectionate young woman's heart. They were to sleep at Miss Payne's residence, in order to be rested and fresh for their journey to the sea-side next day.

Miss Payne herself was unusually amiable, for she had let her house satisfactorily for the greater part of the season, and this as Katherine paid for the Sandbourne villa, was clear gain.

When the boys and their auntie drove up to Miss Payne's abode she was a good deal annoyed to find De Burgh at the door in the act of leaving a card. He hastened to hand her out of the carriage, exclaiming:

"This is the first bit of luck I have had for weeks. You always manage to be out when I call. Come along, my boys. What lucky little fellows you are to come to town for the season!"

"Ah, but we are not going to stay in town. We are going to the sea-side to bathe, and to sail in boats, and—"

"Run in, Charlie, like a good boy," interrupted Katherine. "Your tea will be quite ready."

"I suppose you will think me horribly intrusive if I ask you to let me come in?" said De Burgh. There was something unusually earnest in his tone.

"Oh, not at all," returned Katherine, politely, though she would have much preferred bidding him good-morning. "Here, Sarah, pray take the boys to their room and get their things off. I am sure they want their tea."

Miss Payne's sedate elderly house-maid looked quite elated as she took Charlie's hand and, preceded by Cecil, led him upstairs.

"Are you really 'out' when I come?" asked De Burgh when they reached the drawing-room.

Katherine took off her hat and pushed her hair off her brow as she seated herself in a low chair.

"Yes, I think so. I do not usually deny myself to any visitor." She looked up, half amused, half interested, by the almost imploring expression of his usually hard face.

"I rather suspect I am not a favored guest?"

"Why do you say that, Mr. De Burgh? am I uncivil?"

"No. What a fool I am making of myself! Tell me, are you really going away to-morrow to bury yourself alive?"

"I am really."

"After all, I believe you are right. I am always bored in London. Women think it a paradise."

"I like London so well that I shall probably make it my headquarters."

"It's rather premature for you to make plans, isn't it?"

"Whether it is or not, I have arranged my future much to my own satisfaction."

"The deuce you have! What, at nineteen?"

"Is that an attempt to find out my age?" asked Katherine, laughing.

"No! for I fancy I know it. How far is this place you are going to from town, and how do you get to it?"

"The journey takes about three hours and a half, and you travel by the Southwestern line."

"Well, I intend to have the pleasure of running down to see you presently, if you will permit me."

"Oh, of course, we shall be very happy to see you."

"I hope so," said De Burgh, with a smile. "I don't think you are very encouraging. If there are any decent roads about this place, shall we resume the driving lessons?"

"Thank you"—evasively. "I think of buying a donkey and chaise—certainly a pony for the boys."

De Burgh laughed. "I suppose there is some boating to be had there. I shall certainly have a look at the place, even if I be not admitted to the shrine." There was a pause, during which De Burgh seemed in profound but not agreeable thought; then he suddenly exclaimed: "By-the-way, have you heard the news? Old Errington died, rather sudden at last, some time last night."

"Indeed!" cried Katherine, roused to immediate attention. "I am very sorry to hear it. The marriage will then be put off. You know they were going to have it nearly a month sooner than was at first intended, because Mr. Errington feared the end was near. He was with his father, I hope?"

"Yes, I believe he hardly left him for the last few days. Now the wedding cannot take place for a considerable time."

"It will be a great disappointment," observed Katherine.

"To which of the happy pair?"

"To both, I suppose," she returned.

"Do you think they cared a rap about each other?"

"Yes, I do indeed. Every one has a different way of showing their feelings, and Mr. Errington is quite different from you."

"Different—and immensely superior, eh?"

"I did not say so, Mr. De Burgh."

"No, certainly you did not, and I have no right to guess at what you think. You are right. I am very different from Errington; and you are very different from Lady Alice. I fancy, were you in her place, even the irreproachable bridegroom-elect would find he had a little more of our common humanity about him than he suspects," said De Burgh, his dark eyes seeking hers with a bold admiring glance.

Katherine's cheek glowed, her heart beat fast with sudden distress and anger. De Burgh's suggestion stirred some strange and painful emotion.

"You are in a remarkably imaginative mood, Mr. De Burgh," she said, haughtily. "I cannot see any connection between myself and your ideas."

"Can't you? Well, my ideas gather round you very often."

"I wish he would go away; he is too audacious," thought Katherine. While she said, "I think Mr. Errington will be sorry for his father; I believe he has good feeling, though he is so cold and quiet."

"Oh, he has every virtue under the sun! At any rate he ought to be fond of him, for I fancy the old man has toiled all his life to be able to leave his son a big fortune."

"Has he no brothers or sisters?"

"Two sisters, I believe, older than himself; both married."

There was another pause. Katherine would not break it. She felt peculiarly irritated against De Burgh. His observations had greatly disturbed her. She could not, however, tell him to go, and he stood there looking perfectly at ease. This awkward silence was broken by the welcome appearance of Cecil, who burst into the room, exclaiming: "Auntie, tea is quite ready! There is beautiful chicken pie and buttered cakes, and such a beautiful cat!"

"What! for tea, Cis?" said Katherine, letting him catch her hand and try to drag her away.

"No—o. Why, what a silly you are! Puss is asleep in an arm-chair. Do come, auntie. The lady said I was tell you that tea was quite ready."

"Which means that the audience is over," said De Burgh; "and I rather think you are not sorry." He smiled—not a pleasant smile. "Well, young man, did you never see me before?"—to Cecil, who was staring at him in the deliberate, persistent way in which children gaze at objects which fascinate yet partly frighten them.

"I was thinking you were like—" The little fellow paused.

"Like whom?"

Cis tightened his hold on his auntie's hand, and still hesitated.

"Whom is Mr. De Burgh like?" asked Katherine, amused by the boy's earnestness.

"Like the wicked uncle in the 'Babes in the Wood.' Auntie gave it to me. Such a beautiful picture book!"

De Burgh laughed heartily and good-humoredly. "I can tell you, my boy, you would not find me a bad sort of uncle if it were ever my good fortune to call you nephew."

"But I have no uncle—only auntie," returned Cis.

"Ay, a very pearl of an auntie. Try and be a good boy. Above all, do what you are bid. I never did what I was bid, and you see what I have come to."

"I don't think there is much the matter with you," said Cis, eying him steadily. Then, with a sudden change in the current of his thoughts, he cried, "Do come, auntie; the cakes will be quite cold."

"I will keep you no longer from the banquet," said De Burgh. "I know you are wishing me at—well, my probable destination; so good-by for the present." Then, to Cecil: "Shall I come and see you at—what is the name of the place?—Sandbourne, and take you out for a sail in a boat—a big boat?"

"Oh, yes, please."

"Will you come with me, though I am like the wicked uncle?"

"Yes, if auntie may come too."

"If she begs very hard she may. Well, good-morning, Miss Liddell. I'll not forget Sandbourne, via Southwestern Railway." So saying, De Burgh shook hands and departed.

The next day Miss Payne escorted her suddenly increased party to their marine retreat, returning the following afternoon to attend to the details of letting her house, for which she had had a good offer.

Then came a breathing space of welcome repose to Katherine. The interest—nay, the trouble—of the children drew her out of herself, and dwarfed the past with the more urgent demands of the present. Cliff Cottage was a pretty, pleasant abode. The living rooms, which were of a good size, two of them opening with bay-windows on the pleasure-ground which surrounded the house on three sides, were, with the bedrooms over them, additions to a very small abode.

These Katherine succeeded in making pretty and comfortable. To wake in the morning and hear the pleasant murmur of the waves; to open her window to the soft sweet briny air, and look out on the waters glittering in the early golden light; to listen to the laughter and shrill cries of Cis and Charlie chasing each other in the garden, and feel that they were her charge—all this contributed to restore her to a healthy state of mind, to strengthen and to cheer her.

Cecil, to his dismay at first, was dispatched every morning to school, where he soon made friends and began to feel at home. Charlie Katherine taught herself, as he was still delicate. Then a pony was added to the establishment, and old Francois, ex-courier and factotum, used to take the young gentlemen for long excursions each riding turn about on the quiet, sensible little Shetland.

The pale cheeks which helped to make Charlie so dear to his aunt began to show something of a healthy color before the end of May, and Katherine sometimes laughed to find herself boasting of Cecil's parts and progress to Miss Payne. But the metamorphosis wrought by the young magicians in this important personage was the most remarkable of the effects they produced. Had Miss Liddell been less pleasant and profitable, it is doubtful if Miss Payne would have consented to allow children—boys—to desecrate the precincts of her spotless dwelling; they were in her estimation extremely objectionable. Katherine was, however, a prime favorite; she had touched Miss Payne as none of her former inmates ever did.

Years of battling with the world had coated her heart with a tolerably hard husk; but there was a heart beneath the stony sheath, and by some occult sympathy Katherine had pierced to the hidden fount of feeling, and her chaperon found there was more flavor and warmth in life than she once thought.

When, therefore, she had completed her business in London and was settled at Cliff Cottage, she was surprised to find that the boys did not worry her; nay, when they came racing to meet her in wild delight to show a tangled dripping mass of shells and sea-weed which they had collected in their wading, scrambling wanderings on the shore and among the rocks, she found herself unbending, almost involuntarily, and examining their treasures with unfeigned interest. Then Cecil's very fluent descriptions of his experiences at school, his escapades, his torn garments, the occasional quarrels between the two boys, their appropriation of Francois, and their breakages—all seemed to grow natural and pardonable when the young culprits ran to take her by the hand, and looked in her face with their innocent, trusting eyes. On the whole, Miss Payne had never been so happy before, and Katherine forgot the shifting sands on which she was uprearing the graceful fabric of her tranquil life.

Sometimes they lured Bertie to spend a couple of days with them—days which were always marked with a white stone. What arguments and rambles Katherine enjoyed with him, and what goodly checks she drew to further his numerous undertakings!

De Burgh did not fail to carry out his threat of inspecting Sandbourne. He found a valid excuse in a commission from Colonel Ormonde to advise Miss Liddell respecting a pair of ponies she had asked him to buy for her.

His visit was not altogether displeasing. No woman is quite indifferent to a man who admires her in the hearty, wholesale way which De Burgh did not try to conceal. Katherine was much too feminine not to like the incense of his devotion, especially when he kept it within certain limits. She did not credit him with any deep feeling; but in spite of her strong conviction that he was attracted by her money, she recognized a certain sincerity in his liking for herself. She enjoyed the idea of humbling his immense assurance, believing that any pain she might inflict would be short-lived, while he was amazed to find how swiftly the hours flew past when he allowed himself to spend a couple of days at Sandbourne—surprised to feel so little of the contemptuous bitterness with which he generally regarded his fellow-creatures, and sometimes wondered if it were possible that something more simple than even his boyish self had come back to him.

Still, Bertie Payne was a more welcome guest than De Burgh, in spite of his unspoken but evident devotion. With Bertie she could speak openly of matters on which she would not touch when with the other. To Bertie she could talk of the mysteries of life, and argue on questions of belief. She was touched by the eagerness he showed to convert her to his own extremely evangelical views, and though differing from him on many points, she deeply respected the sincerity of his convictions.

The degree of favor shown by her to "that psalm-singing Puritan," as De Burgh termed him, was gall and wormwood to the latter, and indeed so irritated his spirit that he was driven to speak of the annoyance it caused him to Mrs. Ormonde, of whose discretion and judgment he had but a poor opinion.

Meantime no one heard or saw anything of Errington, who was supposed to be deep in the settlement of his father's affairs, and winding up the estate, as the well-known house of Errington ceased to exist when the head and founder was no more. Lady Alice had gone to stay with her brother and sister-in-law, who lived abroad, as it was impossible for her to enter into the gayeties of the season under existing circumstances, and the marriage was postponed until the end of July.

In short, a lull had stilled the actors in this little drama. The stream of events had entered one of the quiet pools which here and there hold the most rapid current tranquil for a time.

With Mrs. Ormonde all went well. She had the newest and most charming gowns and bonnets, mantles and hats. She found herself very well received by society, and quite a favorite with Lady Mary Vincent, who was a very popular person. So much occupied was the pretty little woman that May was nearly over before she could find time to accept her sister-in-law's repeated invitation to Cliff Cottage.

"I am going down to Sandbourne on Friday," she said to De Burgh one evening as she was waiting for her carriage after a musical party at Lady Mary Vincent's.

"Indeed! I thought you were going last Monday."

"Oh, I could not go on Monday. But if I don't go on Friday I do not think I shall manage my visit at all. Tell me, what does Katherine find to keep her down there? Is it Bertie Payne?"

"How can I tell? She seems contented enough. For that matter, she might find my society equally attractive. Payne does not go down as often as I do."

"No?—but then Katherine has a leaning to sanctity, and you are no saint."

"True. By-the-way, talking of saints, there is a report that old Errington's affairs were not left in as flourishing a condition as was expected."

"Oh, nonsense! It is some mere ill-natured gossip."

"I hope so. I think I will come down on Saturday and escort you back to town."

"Pray do; it will enliven us a little." A shout of "Mrs. Ormonde's carriage!" cut short the conversation, and Mrs. Ormonde did not see De Burgh again until they met at Cliff Cottage.

Mrs. Ormonde's visit, long anticipated, did not prove an unmixed pleasure. She objected to what she considered the terribly long drive of some five miles from the railway station to Katherine's secluded residence; she turned up her pretty little nose at the smallness of the cottage and its general homeliness; she evinced an unfriendly spirit toward Miss Payne, who was perfectly unmoved thereby; and when the boys, well washed and spruced up, approached her, not too eagerly, she scarcely noticed them. This, of course, reacted on the little fellows, who showed a decided inclination to avoid her.

She was tired after a warm journey and previous late hours, and dreadfully afraid that sea air and sun together would have a ruinous effect on her complexion. When, however, she had had tea and made a fresh toilette, she took a less gloomy view of life at Sandbourne, and having recovered her temper, she remembered it would be wiser not to chafe her sister-in-law.

"To be sure," thought the astute little woman, "the boys' settlement is out of her power to revoke; but it would be rather good if she came to live with us, instead of filling the pockets of this prim, presumptuous, self-satisfied old maid. I am sure she is awfully selfish, and I do hate selfishness."

So reflecting, she descended serene and smiling. Half an hour after, she had so completely recovered herself as to declare she had never seen the boys look so well, that they were quite grown, etc., etc.

After dinner Cecil displayed his exercise and copy books, and received a due meed of praise, not unmixed with a little sarcastic remark or two respecting the wonderful effect of his aunt's influence, which did not escape the notice of her son, who felt, though he did not understand why, that she was not quite so well pleased as she affected to be.

"And don't you feel dreadfully dull here?" asked Mrs. Ormonde, as the sisters-in-law strolled along the beach under the shelter of the east cliff, which hid them from the bright morning sunlight.

"No, not as yet. I should not like to live here always; but at present I like the place. You must confess it is very pretty."

"Yes, just now, when the weather is fine. When you have rain and a gale, it must be fearfully dreary."

"We have had some rough days, but the bay has a beauty of its own even in a storm, and we shall not be here in the winter."

"De Burgh runs down to see you pretty often?" asked Mrs. Ormonde, after a short pause. The old regimental habit of calling men by their surnames still returned when she was off guard.

"Yes," replied Katherine, calmly; "he seems to enjoy a day by the sea-side."

Mrs. Ormonde laughed—a hard laugh. "I dare say you enjoy it too."

"Mr. De Burgh is not particularly sympathetic to me, but I like him better than I did."

"Oh, I dare say he makes himself very pleasant to you, and I never knew him show attention to an unmarried woman before, nor to many married women either. Of course it would be absurd to suppose that if you had not a good fortune you would see quite so much of him."

"Naturally," returned Katherine. "I fancy my money would be of great use to him; so it would to most men. That does not affect me. If it is an incentive to make them agreeable and useful, why, so be it."

"I did not expect to hear you talk like that. Now I hate and despise mercenary men."

"Well, you see, the man or the woman must have money or there can be no marriage."

"How worldly you have grown, Kate!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, in a superior tone. She did not perceive anything but sober seriousness in her sister-in-law's tone, and was infinitely annoyed at her taking the insinuations against De Burgh's disinterestedness with such indifference. "I suppose you think it would be a very fine thing to be Baroness De Burgh, and go to court with all the family jewels on."

"I shall certainly not go as Katherine Liddell."

"Pray, why not? Ah, yes; it would all be very fine! But I am too deeply interested in you, dear, not to warn you that De Burgh would make a very bad husband; he has such a horrid, sneering way sometimes; and as to being faithful—constancy is a thing unknown to him."

"What would Colonel Ormonde say if he knew you gave his favorite kinsman so bad a character?"

"Oh, my dear Katherine, you must not betray me! Duke would be furious. But of course your happiness is my first consideration."

"Thank you," returned Katherine, gravely.

"And Mr. Payne, how does he like Mr. De Burgh's visits here?"

"I don't think he minds"—seriously. "I should be sorry if he were annoyed. I am very fond of Bertie Payne."

This declaration somewhat bewildered Mrs. Ormonde. But before she could find suitable words to reply, Charlie came running to meet them, jumping up to kiss his aunt first, and cried; "Mr. De Burgh has come. I saw him driving up to the hotel outside the omlibus."

"The omnibus!" repeated Mrs. Ormonde.

"He would find no other conveyance from the train unless he ordered one previously," said Katherine, laughing.

"Dear me! I suppose he will be here directly. How early he must have started!" in a tone of annoyance. "I feel so hot and uncomfortable after this dreadfully long walk, I must change my dress before I see any one." And she hastened on.

After holding his aunt's hand for a while, Charlie darted away to overtake Francois, whom he perceived at a little distance.

"I declare, Katherine, you are quite supplanting me with those boys!" exclaimed their mother, querulously.

"Ada, I would not for the world wean them from you, if—I mean"—stopping the words which rushed to her lips. "I should be sorry. But you have new ties—another boy. Could you not spare Cis and Charlie to me—for I have no one?"

"I am sure that is your own fault. However, if after three or four months' experience you are not tired of them, I shall be very much surprised."

On reaching the house, Mrs. Ormonde went straight to her own apartment to "refit," and Katherine sat down in the smaller drawing or morning room, which looked west and was cool. She had not been there many minutes before De Burgh was announced.

"Alone!" he exclaimed. "Where is Mrs. Ormonde?"

"She will be here immediately."

"Has she persuaded you to return with her? I wish you would. Lady G—— gives a dinner at Richmond on Thursday; it will be rather amusing. I know most of the fellows who are going, and I think you would enjoy it. You like good talkers, I know."

"Thank you; I have refused."

"Absolutely?"

"Absolutely."

De Burgh came over and leaned his shoulder against the side of the window opposite to where Katherine sat.

"What are you thinking of, if I may ask, Miss Liddell?" he said. "You have scarcely heard what I said. They are not pleasant thoughts, I fancy."

"No," she returned, glad to put them into words that she might exorcise them. "Ada has just reproached me with supplanting her with her boys, and it made me feel, as Americans say 'bad.'"

"Why?" he asked. "Why should you not? I would lay long odds that you love them more than she does. You are more a real mother to them. Why are you always straining at gnats? You really lose a lot of time, which might be more agreeably occupied, worrying over the rights and wrongs of things. Follow my example: go straight ahead for whatever you desire, provided it's not robbery, and let things balance themselves."

"Has that system made you supremely happy?"

"Happy! Oh, that is a big word. I have had some splendid spurts of enjoyment; and now I have an object to win. It will give me a lot of trouble; it's the heaviest stake I ever played for; but it will go hard with me if I don't succeed."

De Burgh had been looking out at the stretch of water before him as he spoke, but at his last words his eyes sought Katherine's with a look she could not misunderstand. She shivered slightly, an odd passing sense of fear chilling her for a moment as she turned to lay her hat upon the table near, saying, in a cold, collected tone.

"You must always remember that the firmest resolution cannot insure success."

"It goes a long way toward it, however," he replied.

"Ah, there is Cis!" cried Katherine, glad to turn the conversation, "come back from school. Are you not earlier than usual, Cis?"—as the boy came bounding over the grass to the open window.

"No, auntie; it is one o'clock."

"Well, young man," said De Burgh, who was not sorry to be interrupted, as he felt he was treading dangerous ground, and with instinctive tact endeavored always to keep friends with Katherine's pets, "I have brought you a present, if auntie will allow you to keep it."

"What is it?—a box of tools, real tools? I do so want a box of tools! But auntie is afraid I will cut myself."

"No; it's a St. Bernard puppy that promises to turn out a fine dog."

"Oh, thank you! thank you! that is nice. I don't think you are a bit like the wicked uncle now. May I go and fetch it now, this moment?"

"Not till after dinner, dear."

"Oh, isn't it jolly! A real St. Bernard dog!"—capering about. "You are a nice man!"

"What are you making such a noise for, Cis?" exclaimed his mother coming in, looking admirably well, fresh, becomingly dressed. "Go away, dear, and be made tidy for your dinner. Well, Mr. De Burgh, I never dreamed of your arriving so early. Did you get up in the middle of the night?"

"Not exactly. The fact is, I must drive over to Revelstoke late this evening and catch the mail train. I have a command to dine with the Baron to-morrow, to talk over some business of importance, and dared not refuse, as you can imagine. The everlasting old tyrant has been quite amiable to me of late."

"Then you'll not be here to escort me back to town, and I hate travelling alone!" cried Mrs. Ormonde.

"Unfortunately no," said De Burgh. "But I have a piece of news for you that will freeze the marrow in your bones: Errington is completely ruined."

"Impossible!" cried both his hearers at once.

"It's too true, I assure you. When, after the old man's death, he began to look into things with his solicitor, he was startled to find certain deficiencies. Then the head clerk, the manager, who had everything in his hands—bossed the show, in short—disappeared, and on further examination it proved that the whole concern was a mere shell, out of which this scoundrel had sucked the capital. There was an awful amount of debt to other houses, several of which would have come down, and ruined the unfortunates connected with them, if Errington had not come forward and sacrificed almost all he possessed to retrieve the credit of his name. He says he ought to have undertaken the risks as well as reaped the profit of the concern. Garston Hall is advertised for sale; so is the house in Berkley Square; his stud is brought to the hammer—everything is given up. What he'll do I haven't an idea. But I must say I think his sense of honor is a little overstrained."

"And Lady Alice!" ejaculated Katherine.

"Of course Melford will soon settle that, if it is not settled already, for a good deal was done before the matter got wind. There hasn't been such a crash for a long time. In short, Errington is utterly, completely ruined."

"I never heard of such a fool!" cried Mrs. Ormonde. "It was bad enough to be disappointed of the wealth old Errington was supposed to have left behind him, but to give up everything! Why, he is only fit for a lunatic asylum. What an awful disappointment for poor Lady Alice!"

Katherine did not, could not speak. The rush of sorrow for the heavy blow which had fallen on the man she had robbed, the shame and self-reproach, which had been lulled asleep for a while, which now woke up with renewed power to torment and irritate—these were too much for her self-control, and while Mrs. Ormonde and De Burgh eagerly discussed the catastrophe, she kept silence and struggled to be composed.



CHAPTER XIX.

CONFESSION.

"Errington is completely ruined!" De Burgh's words repeated themselves over and over again in Katherine's ears through the darkness and silence of her sleepless night. What would become of him—that grave, stately man who had never known the touch of anything common or unclean? How would he live? And what an additional blow the rupture of his engagement with Lady Alice! He was certainly very fond of her. It was like him to give up all he possessed to save the honor of his name, but how would it be if he were penniless? Had she not robbed him, he might have enough to live comfortably after satisfying every one. As she thought, a resolution to restore what she had taken formed itself in her mind. Perhaps if he could show that he had still a solid capital, his engagement to Lady Alice need not be broken off. If she could restore him to competence, he would not refuse some provision for the poor dear boys. Were she secure on this point, she would be happier without the money than with it. But the humiliation of confession—and to such a father confessor? How could she do it? Yet it must be done.

"Good gracious, Katherine, you look like a ghost!" was Mrs. Ormonde's salutation when the little party met at breakfast next morning. "Pray have you seen one?"

"Yes; I have been surrounded by a whole gallery of ghosts all night—which means that a bad conscience would not let me sleep."

"What nonsense! Why, you are a perfect saint, Kate, in some ways; but in others I must say you are foolish; yes, dear, I must say it—very foolish."

"I dare say I am," returned Katherine; "but whether I am or not, I have an intense headache, so you must excuse me if I am very stupid."

"I am sure you want change, Katherine. Do come back with me to town. There is quite time enough to put up all you want before 11, and the train goes at 11.10. There is a little dance, 'small and early' at Lady Mary Vincent's this evening, and I know she would be delighted to see you."

"I do not think hot rooms the best cure for a headache," observed Miss Payne; "and till yesterday Katherine had been looking remarkably well. She was out boating too long in the sun."

"You are very good to trouble about me, Ada. My best cure is quiet. I will go and lie down as soon as I see you off, and I dare say shall be myself again in the evening. I may come up to town for a day or two before you return to Castleford, but I will let you know."

Nothing more was said on the subject then, but when Katherine returned from the station after bidding her sister-in-law good-by, Miss Payne met her with a strong recommendation to take some "sal volatile and water, and to lie down at once."

"I did not, of course, second Mrs. Ormonde's suggestions—the idea of your going for rest or health to her house!—but I am really vexed to see you look so ill. How do you feel?"

"Very well disposed to follow your good advice. If I could get some sleep, I should be quite well." Katherine smiled pleasantly as she spoke. She was extremely thankful to secure an hour or two of silence and solitude.

During the night her heart, her brain, were in such a tumult she could not think consecutively. Alone in her room, and grown calmer, she could plan her future proceedings and screw her courage to the desperate sticking-point of action such as her conscience dictated.

She fastened her door and set her window wide open. After gazing for some time at the sea, golden and glittering in the noonday sun, and inhaling the soft breeze which came in laden with briny freshness, she lay down and closed her eyes. But though keeping profoundly still, no restful look of sleep stole over her set face; no, she was thinking hard, for how long she could not tell. When, however, she came downstairs to join Miss Payne at tea, the anxious, nervous, alarmed expression of her eyes had changed to one of gloomy composure.

"Though I do not care to stay with Ada, I want to go to town to-morrow for a little shopping, and to see Mr. Newton if I can. I will take the quick train at half-past eight and return in the evening. You might send to meet the nine o'clock express. Should anything occur to keep me, I will telegraph."

"Very well"—Miss Payne's usual reply to Katherine's propositions. "But are you quite sure you feel equal to the journey?"

"Yes, quite equal," returned Katherine, with a short deep sigh. "I believe it will do me good."

That Errington had been stunned by the blow which had fallen so suddenly upon him cannot be disputed. His first and bitterest concern was dread lest the character of his father's house, which had always stood so high, lest the honor of his own name, should suffer the smallest tarnish. It was this that made him so eager to ascertain the full liabilities of the firm, so ready to sacrifice all he possessed so that no one save himself should be the loser. "If I accepted a handsome fortune from transactions over which I exercised no supervision, I must hold myself doubly responsible for the result," he argued, and at once set to work to turn all he possessed into money.

In truth the prospect of poverty did not dismay him.

His tastes were very simple. It was the loss of power and position, which wealth always bestows, which he would feel most, and the necessity of renouncing Lady Alice.

This was imperative. Yet it surprised him to perceive how little he felt the prospect of parting with her on his own account. Indeed he was rather ashamed of his indifference. It was for Lady Alice he felt. It would be such a terrible disappointment—not that Errington had much personal vanity. He hoped and thought Lady Alice Mordaunt liked him in a calm and reasonable manner, which is the best guarantee for married happiness. But it was the loss of a tranquil home, a luxurious life, an escape from the genteel poverty of a deeply embarrassed earl's daughter to the ease and comfort of a rich man's wife, that he deplored for her. Poor helpless child! she would probably find a rich husband ere long who would give her all possible luxuries, for a noble's daughter of high degree is generally a marketable article. But he, Miles Errington, would have been kind and patient. Would that other possible fellow be kind and patient too? Knowing his own sex, Errington doubted it. He had a certain amount of the generosity which belongs to strength. To children, and the kind of pretty, undecided women who rank as children, he was wonderfully considerate. But it was quite possible that were he married to a sensible, companionable wife he might be exacting.

At present it seemed highly improbable that he should ever reach a position which would enable him to commit matrimony. Thirty-four is rather an advanced age at which to begin life afresh.

The prospect of bachelorhood, however, by no means dismayed him. Indeed it was more a sense of his social duties as a man of fortune and a future senator that had impelled him to seek a wife, not an irresistible desire for the companionship of a ministering spirit. He was truly thankful that his marriage had bean delayed, and that he was not hampered by any sense of duty toward a wife in his design of sacrificing his all to save his credit.

After the first few days of stunning surprise, Errington set vigorously to work to clear the wreck. Garston was advertised; his stud, his furniture—everything—put up for sale, and his own days divided between his solicitor and his stock-broker. His first step was to explain matters to his intended father-in-law, who, being an impulsive, self-indulgent man, swore a good deal about the ill-luck of all concerned, but at once declared the engagement must be at an end.

As Lady Alice was still in Switzerland with her brother and his wife, it was considered wise to spare her the pain of an interview. Lord Melford explained matters to his daughter in an extremely outspoken letter, enclosing one from Errington, in which, with much good feeling, he bade her a kindly farewell. To this she replied promptly, and a week saw the extinction of the whole affair. Errington could not help smiling at this "rapid act." It was then about three weeks after the blow had fallen—a warm glowing June morning. Errington's man of business had just left him, and he had returned to his writing-table, which was strewn, or rather covered, with papers (nothing Errington ever handled was "strewn"), and continued his task of making out a list of his private liabilities, which were comparatively light, when his valet—not yet discharged, though already warned to look for another master—approached, with his usually impassive countenance, and presented a small note.

Errington opened it, and to his inexpressible surprise read as follows:

"TO MR. ERRINGTON,—Allow me to speak to you alone. "KATHERINE LIDDELL."

"Who brought this?" asked Errington, suppressing all expression as well as he could.

"A young person in black, sir—leastways I think she's young."

"Show her in; and, Harris, I am engaged if any one calls."

Errington went to the door to meet his most unexpected visitor. The next moment she stood before him. He bowed with much deference. She bent her head in silence, but did not offer to shake hands. She wore a black dress and a very simple black straw hat, round which a white gauze veil was tied, which effectually concealed her face.

"Pray sit down," was all Errington could think of saying, so astonished was he at her sudden appearance.

Katherine took a seat opposite to his. She unfastened and took off her veil, displaying a face from which her usual rich soft color had faded, sombre eyes, and tremulous lips. Looking full at him, she said, without greeting of any kind, "Do you think me mad to come here?"

"I am a little surprised; but if I can be of any use—" Errington began calmly. She interrupted him.

"I hope to be of use to you. No one except myself can explain how or why; that is the reason I have intruded upon you."

"You do not intrude, Miss Liddell. I am quite at your service; only I hope you are not distressing yourself on my account."

"On yours and my own." Her eyes sank, and her hands played nervously with the handle of a small dainty leather bag she carried, as she paused. Then, looking up steadily, and speaking in a monotonous tone, as if she were repeating a lesson, with parched lips she went on: "I did you a great wrong some years ago. I was sorry, but I had not the courage to atone until I learned (only yesterday) that you had lost, or rather given up, your fortune, and that your engagement might be broken off. (I must speak of these things. You will forgive me before I come to an end.) Then I felt something stronger than myself that forced me to tell you all." Her heart beat so hard that her voice could not be steadied. She stopped to breathe.

"I fear you are exciting yourself needlessly," said Errington, quite bewildered, and almost fearing that his visitor's brain was affected.

"Oh, listen!—do listen! My uncle, John Liddell, your father's old friend, left all his money to you. I hid the will, and succeeded as next of kin. The property amounts to something more than eighty thousand pounds, and I have not spent half the income, so there are some savings besides. Can you not live comfortably on that, and marry Lady Alice?"

Errington gazed at her for a moment speechless. A sigh of relief broke from Katherine. The color rose to her cheeks, her throat, her small white ears, and then slowly faded.

"I can hardly understand you, Miss Liddell. I fear you are under the effect of some nervous hallucination."

"I am not. I can prove I am not." She drew forth the packet inscribed "MS. to be destroyed," and laid it before him. "There is the will. Thank God I never could bring myself to destroy it. Here, pray read it." She opened the document and handed it to him.

There were a few moments' dead silence while Errington hastily skimmed the will. "I am most reluctantly obliged to believe you," he said at length. "But what an extraordinary circumstance! How"—looking earnestly at her—"how did it ever occur to you to—to—"

"To commit a felony?" put in Katherine, as he paused.

"No; I was not going to use such a word," he said, gravely, but not unkindly.

"If you have time to listen I will tell you everything. Now that I have told the ugly secret that has made a discord in my life, I can speak more easily." But her sweet mouth still quivered.

"Yes, tell me all," said Errington, more eagerly than perhaps he had ever spoken before.

In a low but more composed voice Katherine gave a rapid account of the circumstances which led to her residence with her uncle: of her intense desire to help the dear mother whose burden was almost more than she could bear; then of the change which came to the old miser—his increasing interest in herself, and finally of his expressed intention to change his will—as she hoped, in her favor; of her leaving it, by his direction, in the writing-table drawer; of his terribly sudden death.

Then came the great temptation. "When Mr. Newton said that if the will existed it would be in the bureau, but that as he had been on the point of making another, so he (Mr. Newton) hoped he had destroyed the last," continued Katherine, "a thought darted through my brain. Why should it be found? He no longer wished its provisions to be carried out. I should not, in destroying or suppressing it, defeat the wishes of the dead. I determined, if Mr. Newton asked me a direct question, I would tell him the truth; if not, I would simply be silent. In short, I mentally tossed for the guidance of my conduct. Silence won. Mr. Newton asked nothing; he was too glad that everything was mine. He has been very, very good to me. I imagined that half my uncle's money would go to my brother's children, but it did not; so when I came of age I settled a third upon them. Of course the deed of gift is now but so much waste paper, and for them I would earnestly implore you to spare a little yearly allowance for education, to prepare them to earn their own bread. I feel sure you will do this, and I do deeply dread their being thrown on Colonel Ormonde's charity; their lot would be very miserable. My poor little boys!" Her voice broke, and she stopped abruptly.

Errington's eyes dwelt upon her, almost sternly, with the deepest attention, while she spoke. Nor did he break silence at once; he leaned back in his chair, resting one closed hand on the table before him. At last he exclaimed: "I wish you had not told me this! I could not have imagined you capable of such an act."

"And more," said Katherine; "although I wish to make what reparation I can, had that act to be done again—even with the anticipation of this bitter hour—I'd do it."

She looked straight into Errington's eyes, her own aflame with sudden passion. He was silent, his brow slightly knit, a puzzled expression in his face. The natural motion of his mind was to condemn severely such a lawless sentiment, yet he could not resist thinking of those brilliant speaking eyes, nor help the conviction that he had never met a real live woman before. It was like a scene on the stage; for demonstrative emotion always appeared theatrical to him, only it was terribly earnest this time.

"You would not say so were you calmer," said Errington, in a curious hesitating manner. "Why—why did you not come and tell me your need for your uncle's money? Do you think I am so avaricious as to retain the fortune, or all the fortune, that ought to have been yours, when I had enough of my own?"

"How could I tell?" she cried. "If I knew you then as I do now I should have asked you, and saved my soul alive; but what did the name of Errington convey to me? Only the idea of a greedy enemy! Are men so ready to cast the wealth they can claim into the lap of another? When you spoke to me that day at Castleford I thought I should have dropped at your feet with the overpowering sense of shame. But withal, when I remember my disappointment, my utter inability to help my dear overtasked mother, round whom the net of difficulty, of debt, of fruitless work, was drawing closer and closer, I again feel the irresistible force of the temptation. You, who are wise and strong and just, might have resisted; but"—with a slight graceful gesture of humility—"you see what I am."

"If you had stopped to think!" Errington was beginning with unusual severity, for he was irritated by the confusion in his own mind, which was so different from his ordinary unhesitating decision between right and wrong.

"But when you love any one very much—so entirely that you know every change of the dear face, the meaning even of the drooping hand or the bend of the weary head; when you know that a true brave heart is breaking under a load of care—care for you, for your future, when it will no longer be near to watch over and uphold you—and that no thought or tenderness or personal exertion can lift that load, only the magic of gold, why, you would do almost anything to get it. Would you not if you loved like this?" concluded Katherine. She had spoken rapidly and with fire.

"But I never have," returned Errington, startled.

"Then," said she, with some deliberation, "wisdom for you is from one entrance quite shut out." She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and was very still during a pause, which Errington hesitated to break.

"It is no doubt lost breath to excuse myself to a man of your character, only do believe I was not meanly greedy! Now I have told you everything, I readily resign into your hands what I ought never to have taken. And—and you will spare my nephews wherewithal to educate them? Do what I can, this is beyond my powers, but I trust to your generosity not to let them be a burden on Colonel Ormonde. I leave the will with you." She made a movement as if to put on her veil.

"Listen to me, Miss Liddell," said Errington, speaking very earnestly and with an effort. "You are in a state of exaltation, of mental excitement. The consciousness of the terrible mistake into which you were tempted has thrown your judgment off its balance. I do not for an instant doubt the sincerity of your proposition, but a little reflection will show you I could not entertain it."

"Why not? I am quite willing to bear the blame, the shame, I deserve, rather than see you parted from the woman who was so nearly your wife, who would no doubt suffer keenly, and who—"

"Pray hear me," interrupted Errington. "To part with Lady Alice is a great aggravation of my present troubles; but considering the kind of life to which we were both accustomed, and which she had a right to expect, I am sincerely thankful she was preserved from sharing my lot. Alone I can battle with life; distracted by knowing I had dragged her down, I should be paralyzed. I shall always remember with grateful regard the lady who honored me by promising to be my wife, but I shall be glad to know that she is in a safe position under the care of a worthier man than myself. That matter is at rest forever. Now as to using the information you have placed in my power, you ask what is impossible. First, it is evident that the late Mr. Liddell fully intended to alter his will in your favor. It would have been most unjust to have bestowed his fortune to me. I am extremely glad it is yours."

"But," again interrupted Katherine, "why should you not share it at least? Why should you be penniless while I am rich with what is not mine?"

"I shall not be absolutely penniless," said Errington, smiling gravely. "Even if I were," he continued, with unusual animation, "do you think me capable of rebuilding my fortune on your disgrace? or of inventing some elaborate lie to account for the possession of that unlucky will? No amount of riches could repay me for either. I dare say the temptation you describe was irresistible to a nature like yours, and I dare say too the punishment of your self-condemnation is bitter enough. Now you must reflect that your duty is to keep the secret to which you have bound yourself. If you raise the veil which must always hide the true facts of your succession, you would create great unhappiness and confusion in Colonel Ormonde's family, and injure the innocent woman whom he would never have married had he not been sure you would provide for the boys. It would so cruel to break up a home merely to indulge a morbid desire for atonement. No, Miss Liddell. Be guided by me; accept the life you have brought upon yourself. I, the only one who has a right to do it, willingly resign what ought to have been yours without your unfortunately illegal act. Your secret is perfectly safe with me. Time will heal the wounds you have inflicted on yourself and enable you to forget. Leave this ill-omened document with me; it is safer than in your hands. Indeed there is no use in keeping it."

"But what—what will become of you?" she asked, with strange familiarity, the outcome of strong excitement which carried her over all conventional limits.

"Oh, I have had some training in the world both of men and books, and I hope to be able to keep the wolf from the door."

"Would you not accept part at least—a sum of money, you know, to begin something?" asked Katherine, her voice quivering, her nerves relaxing from their high tension, and feeling utterly beaten, her high resolves of sacrifice and renunciation tumbling about her, like a house of cards, at the touch of common-sense.

"I do not think any arrangements of the kind practicable," returned Errington, with a kind smile. "I understand your eagerness to relieve your conscience by an act of restitution, but now you are exonerated. I ask nothing but that you should forgive yourself, and knit up the ravelled web of your life. The fortune ought to be yours—is yours—shall be yours."

"Will you promise that if you ever want help—money help—you will ask me? I shall have more money every year, for I shall never spend my income."

"I shall not want help," he returned, quietly. "But though it is not likely we shall meet again, believe me I shall always be glad to know you are well and happy. Let this painful conversation be the last we have on this subject. For my part, I grant you plenary absolution."

"You are good and generous; you are wise too; your judgment constrains me. Yet I hope I shall never see you again. It is too humiliating to meet your eyes." She spoke brokenly as she tied the white veil closely over her face.

"Nevertheless we part friends," said Errington, and held out his hand. She put hers in it. He felt how it trembled, and held it an instant with a friendly pressure. Then he opened the door and followed her to the entrance, where he bowed low as she passed out.

Errington returned at once to his writing-table and his calculations. He took up his pen, but he did not begin to write. He leaned back in his chair and fell into an interesting train of thought. What an extraordinary mad proceeding it was of that girl to conceal the will! It was strangely unprincipled. "How impossible it is to trust a person who acts from impulse! The difference between masculine and feminine character is immense. No man with a grain of honor in him would have done what she did; only some dastardly hound who could cheat at cards. And she—somehow she seems a pure good woman in spite of all. I suppose in a woman's sensitive and weaker nature good and evil are less distinct, more shaded into each other. After all, I think I would trust my life to the word of this daring law-breaker." And Errington recalled the expressive tones of her voice, surprised to feel again the strange thrill which shivered through him when she had looked straight into his eyes, her own aglow with momentary defiance, and said, "Had it to be done again, I'd do it!" He had never been brought face to face with real emotion before. He knew such a thing existed; that it led like most things to good and to evil; that it was exceedingly useful to poets, who often touched him, and to actors, who did not; but in real every-day life he had rarely, if ever, seen it. The people with whom he associated were rich, well born, well trained; a crumpled rose leaf here and there was the worst trouble in their easy, conventional, luxurious lives. Of course he had met men on the road to ruin who swore and drank and gambled and generally disgraced themselves. Such cases, however, did not affect him much; he only touched such characters with moral tongs. Now this delicate, refined girl had humbled herself before him. Her sweet varying tones, her moist glowing eyes, the indescribable tremulous earnestness which was the undertone of all she said, her determined efforts for self-command, made a deep impression on him. Was she right when she said that from him "wisdom by one entrance was quite shut out?" At all events he felt, though he did not consciously acknowledge it even to himself, that this impulsive, inexperienced girl, whom he strove to look down upon from the unsullied heights of his own integrity, had revealed to him something of life's inner core which had hitherto been hidden from his sight.

But all this dreaming was unpardonable waste of time when so much serious work lay before him. So Errington resolutely turned from his unusual and disturbing reverie, dipped his pen in the ink, and began to write steadily.



CHAPTER XX.

PLENARY ABSOLUTION.

Katherine never could distinctly remember what she did after leaving Errington. She was humbled in the dust—crushed, dazed. She felt that every one must perceive the stamp of "felon" upon her.

The passionate desire to restore his rightful possessions to Errington, to confess all, had carried her through the dreadful interview. She was infinitely grateful to him for the kind tact with which he concealed the profound contempt her confession must have evoked, but no doubt that sentiment was now in full possession of his mind. It showed in his unhesitating, even scornful, rejection of her offered restitution. She almost regretted having made the attempt, and yet she had a kind of miserable satisfaction in having told the truth, the whole truth, to Errington; anything was better than wearing false colors in his sight.

It was this sense of deception that had embittered her intercourse with him at Castleford; otherwise she would have been gratified by his grave friendly preference.

How calm, how unmoved, he seemed amid the wreck of his fortunes. Yes, his was true strength—the strength of self-mastery. How different, how far nobler than the vehemence of De Burgh's will, which was too strong for his guidance! But Lady Alice could never have loved Errington—never—or she would have loved on and waited for him till the time came when union might be possible. Had she been in her place! But at the thought her heart throbbed wildly with the sudden perception that she could have loved him well, with all her soul, and rested on him, confident in his superior wisdom and strength—a woman's ideal love. And before this man she had been obliged to lay down her self-respect, to confess she had cheated him basely, to resign his esteem for ever! It was a bitter punishment, but even had she been stainless and he a free man, she, Katherine, was not the sort of girl he would like. She was too impulsive, too much at the mercy of her emotions, too quick in forming and expressing opinions. No; the feminine reserve and tranquility of Lady Alice were much more likely to attract his affections and call forth his respect. This was an additional ingredient of bitterness, and Katherine felt herself an outcast, undeserving of tenderness or esteem.

The weather was oppressively warm and sunless. A dim instinctive recollection of her excuse for coming to town forced Katherine to visit some of the shops where she was in the habit of dealing, and then she sat for more than a weary hour in the Ladies' Room at Waterloo Station, affecting to read a newspaper which she did not see, waiting for the train that would take her home to the darkness and stillness in which friendly night would hide her for a while. The journey back was a continuation of the same tormenting dream-like semi-consciousness, and by the time she reached Cliff Cottage she felt physically ill.

"It was dreadfully foolish to go up to town in this heat," said Miss Payne, severely, when she brought up some tea to Katherine's room, where she retreated on her arrival. "I dare say you could have written for what you wanted."

"Not exactly"—with a faint smile.

"I never saw you look so ill. You must take some sal volatile, and lie down. If there had been much sun, I should have said you had had a sunstroke. I hope, however, a good night's rest will set you up."

"No doubt it will; so I will try and sleep now."

"Quite right. I will leave you, and tell the boys you cannot see them till to-morrow." So Miss Payne, who had a grand power of minding her own affairs and abstaining from troublesome questions, softly closed the door behind her.

It took some time to rally from the overwhelming humiliation of this crisis. Katherine came slowly back to herself, yet not quite herself. Miss Payne had been so much disturbed by her loss of appetite, of energy, of color, that she had insisted on consulting the local doctor, who pronounced her to be suffering from low fever and nervous depression. He prescribed tonics and warm sea-water baths, which advice Katherine meekly followed. Soon, to the pride of the Sandbourne AEsculapius, a young practitioner, she showed signs of improvement, and declared herself perfectly well.

Perhaps the tonic which had assisted her to complete recovery was a letter which reached her about a week after the interview that had affected her so deeply. It was addressed in large, firm, clear writing, which was strange to her.



"I venture to trouble you with a few words," (it ran) "because when last I saw you I was profoundly impressed by the suffering you could not hide. I cannot refrain from writing to entreat you will accept the position in which you are placed. Having done your best to rectify what is now irrevocable, be at peace with your conscience. I am the only individual entitled to complain or interfere with your succession, and I fully, freely make over to you any rights I possess. Had your uncle's fortune passed to me, it would have been an injustice for which I should have felt bound to atone: nor would you have refused my proposition to this effect. Consider this page of your life blotted out, casting it from your mind. Use and enjoy your future as a woman of your nature, so far as I understand it, can do. It will probably be long before I see you again—which I regret the less because it might pain you to meet me before time has blunted the keen edge of your self-reproach. Absent or present, however, I shall always be glad to know that you are well and happy. "Will you let me have a line in reply? "Yours faithfully, MILES ERRINGTON."



The perusal of this letter brought Katherine the infinite relief of tears. How good and generous he was! How heartily she admired him! How gladly she confessed her own inferiority to him! Forgiven by him, she could face life again with a sort of humble courage. But oh! it would be impossible to meet his eyes. No; years would not suffice to blunt the keen self-reproach which the thought of him must always call up—the shame, the pride, the dread, the tender gratitude. Long and passionately she wept before she could recover sufficiently to write him the reply he asked. Then it seemed to her that the bitterness and cruel remorse had been melted and washed away by these warm grateful tears. He forgave her, and she could endure the pressure of her shameful secret more easily in future. At last she took her pen, and feeling that the lines she was about to trace would be a final farewell, wrote:

"My words must be few, for none I can find will express my sense of the service yours have done me. I accept your gift. I will try and follow your advice. Shall the day ever come when you will honor me by accepting part of what is your own? Thank you for your kind suggestion not to meet me; it would be more than I could bear. Yours, KATHERINE."

Then with deepest regret she tore up his precious letter into tiny morsels, and striking a match, consumed them. It would not do to incur the possibility of such a letter being read by any third pair of eyes. Moreover, she was careful to post her reply herself. And so, as Errington said, that page of her story was blotted out, at least, from the exterior world, but to her own mind it would be ever present: round this crisis her deepest, most painful, ay, and sweetest memories would cling. It was past, however, and she must take up her life again.

She felt something of the weakness, the softness, which convalescents experience when first they begin to go about after a long illness, the dreamy, quiet pleasure of coming back to life. The boys continued to be her deepest interest. So time went on, and no one seemed to perceive the subtle change which had sobered her spirit.

The season was over, and Mrs. Ormonde descended on Cliff Cottage for a parting visit. She had only given notice of her approach by a telegram.

"You know you are quite too obstinate, Katherine," she said, as the sisters-in-law sat together in the drawing-room, waiting for the cool of the evening before venturing out. "You never came to me all through the season except once, when you wanted to shop, and now you refuse to join us at Castleford in September, when we are to have really quite a nice party: Mr. De Burgh and Lord Riversdale and—oh! several really good men."

"I dare say I do seem stupid to you, but then, you see, I know what I want. You are very good to wish for me. Next year I shall be very pleased to pay you a visit."

"Then what in the world will you do in the winter?"

"Remain where I am—I mean with Miss Payne—and look out for a house for myself."

"But, my dear, you are much too young to live alone."

"I am twenty-one now; I shall be twenty-two by the time I am settled in a house of my own. And, Ada, I am going to ask you a favor. Lend me your boys to complete my respectability."

"What! for altogether? Why, Katherine, you will marry, and—"

"Well, suppose I do, that need not prevent my having the comfort of my nephews' company until the fatal knot is tied."

"Now, dear Katherine, do tell me—are you engaged to any one? Not a foreigner?—anything but a foreigner!"

"At present," said Katherine, with some solemnity, "I am engaged to two young men."

"My dear! You of all young girls! I am astonished. There is nothing so deep, after all, as a demure young woman. I suppose you are in a scrape, and want Colonel Ormonde to help you out of it?"

"I think I can manage my own affairs."

"Don't be too sure. A girl with money like you is just the subject for a breach-of-promise case. Do I know either of these men?"

"Yes, both."

"Who are they?" cried Mrs. Ormonde, with deepening interest.

"Cis and Charlie," returned Katherine, laughing.

"I really cannot see anything amusing in this sort of stupid mystification," cried Mrs. Ormonde, in a huff.

"Pray forgive me; but your determination to marry me out of hand tempts me to such naughtiness. However, be forgiving, and lend me the boys till next spring. They might go to Castleford for Christmas."

"Oh no," interrupted Mrs. Ormonde, hastily. "I forgot to mention that Ormonde has almost promised to spend next Christmas in Paris. It is such a nuisance to be in one's own place at Christmas; there is such work distributing blankets and coals and things. If one is away, a check to the rector settles everything. I assure you the life of a country gentleman is not all pleasure."

"Then you will let me have the boys?"

"Well, dear, if you really like it, I do not see, when you have such a fancy, why you should not be indulged."

"Thank you. And I may choose a school for Cis?"

"I am sure the neither Ormonde nor I would interfere; just now it is of no great importance. But—of course—that is—I should like some allowance for myself out of their money."

"Of course you should have whatever you are in the habit of receiving."

After this, Mrs. Ormonde was most cordial in her approbation of everything suggested by her sister-in-law. The friendly conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Cecil with his satchel over his shoulder. He went straight to his young aunt and hugged her.

"Well, Cis, I see you don't care for mother now," exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, easily moved to jealousy, as she always was.

"Oh yes, I do! only you don't like me to jump on you, and auntie doesn't mind about her clothes." And he kissed her heartily.

"Do you want to come back to Castleford?"

"What, now? when the holidays begin next week?"—this with a rueful expression. "Why, we were to have a sailing boat, and old Norris the sailor and his boy are to come out every evening."

"Then you don't want to come?"

"Oh, mayn't we stay a little longer, mother? It is so nice here!"

"You may stay as long as your aunt cares to keep you, for all I care," cried Mrs. Ormonde, somewhat spitefully.

"Oh, thank you, mother dear—thank you!" throwing his arms round her neck. "I'll be such a good boy when I come back; but it is nice here. Then you have baby, and he does not worry you as much as we do." Katherine thought this a very significant reply.

"There! there!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, disengaging herself from the warm clinging arms. "Go and wash your hands; they are frightfully dirty."

"It's clean dirt, mother. I stopped on the beach to help Tom Damer to build up a sand fort."

"Why did Miss North let you?"

"Oh, I was by myself! I don't want any one to take care of me," said Cecil, proudly.

"Good heavens! do you let the child walk about alone?" cried Mrs. Ormonde, with an air of surprise and indignation.

"Run away to Miss North," said Katherine, and as Cecil left the room she replied: "As Cecil is nine years old, Ada, and a very bright boy, I think he may very well be let to take care of himself. The school is not far, and he cannot learn independence too soon."