As we have seen, she knew and felt that it would be vain to oppose her grandfather’s wish to have Mrs. Stillwater in the house, especially as he had already invited her and sent her the money to come—­unless she should tell him of that secret interview she had witnessed between Mr. Fabian and Mrs. Stillwater.  That, indeed, might banish Rose from Rockhold, but it would also bring down a domestic cataclysm that must break up the household and separate its members.

No, she could say nothing, do nothing that would not make matters worse.  She must let events take their course, bide her time and hope for the best, she said to herself, as she arose and rang the bell.

John, the footman, answered the call.

“It is Martha whom I want.  Send her here,” said the lady.

The man went out and the upper housemaid came in.

“You wanted me, ma’am?”

“Yes.  Do you remember the room occupied by my nursery governess years ago?”

“Yes, ma’am; the front room on the left side of the hall on the third story.”

“Yes; that is the room.  Have it prepared for the same person.  She will be here to-morrow evening.”

“Good—­Lord!” involuntarily exclaimed old Martha; “why, we haven’t heard of her for a dozen years.  What a sweet creeter she was, though, Miss Cora.  I thought as she’d a married a fortin’ long ago.”

“She has been married and widowed.  At least she says so.”

“A widow, poor thing!  And is she comin’ to be a companion or anything?”

“She is coming as a guest.”

“Oh! very well, Miss Cora; I will have the room ready in time.”

When the old woman had left the room Cora sat down to her writing desk and wrote two letters—­one to Mr. Fabian Rockharrt, Hotel Trois Freres, Paris; the other to Cadet Sylvanus Haught, West Point, N.Y.

When she had finished and sealed these she put them in the mail bag that was left in the hall to be taken at daybreak by the groom to North End post office.  Then she retired to rest.

The next morning she breakfasted tete-a-tete with her grandfather, Mr. Clarence having remained over night at North End.  While they were still at the table the man John entered with a telegram, which he laid on the table before his master.

“Who brought this?” inquired the Iron King, as he opened it.

“Joseph brought it when he came back from the post office.  It had just come, and Mr. Clarence gave it to Joseph to fetch to you, sir.  Yes, sir!” replied John.

“It is from Mrs. Stillwater.  That lady is a perfect model of promptitude and punctuality.  She says—­but I had better read it to you.  John, you need not wait,” said Mr. Rockharrt.

The negro, who had lingered from curiosity to hear what was in the telegram, immediately retired.

Old Aaron Rockharrt took up the long slip, adjusted his spectacles and read: 

    WIRT HOUSE, BALTIMORE, MD., May 16th, 18—­