“Tell her nothing, then; only run away.  What is the matter now?”

“One thing before you go, mother.  I too had a letter to-night.”

“Had you, my dear?  I cannot be worried about your correspondence now.”

“My letter was from Loftie.”

“Loftus!  What did he write about?”

“He is coming here to-morrow night.”

Catherine glanced eagerly into her mother’s face as she spoke.  It did not grow any whiter or any more careworn.

She stood still for a moment in the middle of the drawing-room, evidently thinking deeply.  When she spoke her brow had cleared and her voice was cheerful.

“This may be for the best,” she said.

Catherine stamped her foot impatiently.

“Mother,” she said, “you quite frighten me with your innuendoes and your half-confidences.  I don’t understand you.  It is very difficult to act when one only half understands.”

“I cannot make things plainer for you, my dear.  I am glad Loftie is coming.  You girls must entertain him as well as you can.  This is Wednesday evening.  I hope to be back at the latest on Monday.  It is possible even that I may transact my business sooner.  Keep Loftus in a good temper, Kate.  Don’t let him quarrel with Mabel, and, above all things, do not breathe to a soul that your mother has gone to London.  Now, kiss me, dear.  It is a comfort to have a grown-up daughter to lean on.”

CHAPTER V.

THE USUAL SORT OF SCRAPE.

On the following evening Loftus Bertram made his appearance at Rosendale Manor.  Catherine and Mabel were both waiting for him under the shade of the great oak tree which commanded a view of the gate.  His train was due at Northbury at seven o’clock.  He was to come by express from London, and the girls concluded that the express would not be more than five minutes late.  Allowing for this, and allowing also for the probability that Loftus would be extremely discontented with the style of hackney coach which alone would await him at the little station and might in consequence prefer to walk to the Manor, the girls calculated he might put in an appearance on the scene at about twenty minutes past seven.  They had arranged to have dinner at a quarter to eight, and sat side by side now, looking a little forlorn in the frocks they had grown out of, and a little lonely, like half-fledged chicks, without their mother’s august protection.

“Loftie will wonder,” said Mabel, “at mother going off to Manchester in such a hurry.”

It was the cook who had told Mabel about Manchester, Clara having informed her.

“There’s Loftus!” suddenly exclaimed Catherine.  “I knew he’d walk.  I said so.  There’s the old shandrydan crawling after him with the luggage.  Come, Mabel.  Let’s fly to meet the dear old boy.”

She was off and away herself before Mabel had time to scramble to her feet.  Her running was swift as a fawn’s—­in an instant she had reached her brother—­threw herself panting with laughter and joy against him, and flung one arm round his neck.