In the mean time the letter which was to summon Fate sped to its destination.  When it arrived in Oxford, Julius had left Oxford for London, and it followed him there.  He was sitting in his hotel the ensuing night, when it was delivered into his hands; and as it happened, he was in a mood most favorable to its success.  He had been down the river on a picnic, had found his company very tedious; and early in the day the climate had shown him what it was capable of, even at mid-summer.  As he sat cowering before the smoky fire, the rain plashed in the muddy streets, and dripped mournfully down the dim window-panes.  He was wondering what he must do with himself during the long vacation.  He was tired of the Continent, he was lonely in England; and the United States had not then become the great playground for earth’s weary or curious children.

Many times the idea of seeking out his own relations occurred to him.  He had promised his father to do so.  But, as a rule, people haven’t much enthusiasm about unknown relations; and Julius regarded his promise more in the light of a duty to be performed than as the realization of a pleasure.  Still, on that dreary night, in the solitary dulness of his very respectable inn, the Sandals, Lockerbys, and Piersons became three possible sources of interest.  While his thoughts were drifting in this direction, the squire’s letter was received; and the young man, who was something of a fatalist, accepted it as the solution of a difficulty.

“Sandal turns the new leaf for me,” he murmured; “the new leaf in the book of life.  I wonder what story will be written in it.”

He answered the invitation while the enthusiasm of its reception swayed him, and he promised to follow the letter immediately.  The squire received this information on Saturday night, as he was sitting with his wife and daughters.  “Your nephew Julius Sandal, from Calcutta, is coming to pay us a visit, Alice,” he said; and his air was that of a man who thinks he is communicating a piece of startling intelligence.  But the three women had already exchanged every possible idea on the subject, and felt no great interest in its further discussion.

“When is he coming?” asked Mrs. Sandal without enthusiasm; and Sophia supplemented the question by remarking, “I suppose he has nowhere else to go.”

“I wouldn’t say such things, Sophia; I would not.”

“He has been in England some months, father.”

“Well, then, he was only waiting till he was asked to come.  I’m sure that was a proper thing.  If there is any blame between us, it is my fault.  I sent him a word of welcome last Wednesday morning, and it is very likely he will be here to-morrow.  I’m sure he hasn’t let any grass grow under his feet.  Eh?  What?”

Charlotte looked up quickly. “Wednesday morning.”  She was quite capable of putting this and that together, and by a momentary mental process she arrived at an exceedingly correct estimate of her father’s invitation.  Her blue eyes scintillated beneath her dropped lids; and, though she went calmly on tying the feather to the fishing-fly she was making, she said, in a hurried and unsteady voice, “I know he will be disagreeable, and I have made up my mind to dislike him.”