carefully planned murder should occur in Christian England.  That these things occur in the abstract we are ready to admit, but we find it very difficult to realize that they may come within the horizon of our own experience.  Hence Mrs. Scully set no importance upon Kate’s fears for her life, and put them down to the excited state of the girl’s imagination.  She did consider it, however, to be a very iniquitous and unjustifiable thing that a young girl should be cooped up and separated from all the world in such a very dreary place of seclusion as the Priory.  This consideration and nothing more serious had set that look of wrath upon her pleasant face, and had stirred her up to frustrate Girdlestone and to communicate with Kate’s friends.

Her intention had been to telegraph to London, but as she drove to Bedsworth she bethought her how impossible it would be for her within the limits of a telegram to explain to her satisfaction all that she wanted to express.  A letter, she reflected, would, if posted now, reach the major by the first post on Saturday morning.  It would simply mean a few hours’ delay in the taking of steps to relieve Kate, and what difference could a few hours more or less make to the girl.  She determined, therefore, that she would write to the major, explaining all the circumstances, and leave it to him what course of action should be pursued.

Mrs. Scully was well known at the post office, and they quickly accommodated her with the requisites for correspondence.  Within a quarter of an hour she had written, sealed, stamped, and posted the following epistle:—­

    “DEAREST TOBY,

“I am afraid you must find your period of probation very slow.  Poor boy! what does he do?  No billiards, no cards, no betting—­ how does he manage to get through the day at all?  Smokes, I suppose, and looks out of the window, and tells all his grievances to Mr. Von Baumser.  Aren’t you sorry that ever you made the acquaintance of Morrison’s second floor front?  Poor Toby!

“Who do you think I have come across down here?  No less a person than that Miss Harston who was Girdlestone’s ward.  You used to talk about her, I remember, and indeed you were a great admirer of hers.  You would be surprised if you saw her now, so thin and worn and pale.  Still her face is very sweet and pretty, so I won’t deny your good taste—­how could I after you have paid your addresses to me?

“Her guardian has brought her down here and has locked her up in a great bleak house called the Priory.  She has no one to speak to, and is not allowed to write letters.  She seemed to be heart-broken because none of her friends know where she is, and she fears that they may imagine that she has willingly deserted them.  Of course, by her friends she means that curly-headed Mr. Dimsdale that you spoke of.  The poor girl is in a very low nervous state, and told me over the wall of the park that she