“I have no heart, mamma, to wear colors.”

Mrs. Presty considered this reply to be unworthy of notice.  She went on with her knitting, and only laid it down when the servant brought in the letters which had arrived by the morning’s post.  They were but two in number—­and both were for Mrs. Linley.  In the absence of any correspondence of her own, Mrs. Presty took possession of her daughter’s letters.

“One addressed in the lawyer’s handwriting,” she announced; “and one from Randal.  Which shall I open for you first?”

“Randal’s letter, if you please.”

Mrs. Presty handed it across the table.  “Any news is a relief from the dullness of this place,” she said.  “If there are no secrets, Catherine, read it out.”

There were no secrets on the first page.

Randal announced his arrival in London from the Continent, and his intention of staying there for a while.  He had met with a friend (formerly an officer holding high rank in the Navy) whom he was glad to see again—­a rich man who used his wealth admirably in the interest of his poor and helpless fellow-creatures.  A “Home,” established on a new plan, was just now engaging all his attention:  he was devoting himself so unremittingly to the founding of this institution that his doctor predicted injury to his health at no distant date.  If it was possible to persuade him to take a holiday, Randal might return to the Continent as the traveling-companion of his friend.

“This must be the man whom he first met at the club,” Mrs. Presty remarked.  “Well, Catherine, I suppose there is some more of it.  What’s the matter?  Bad news?”

“Something that I wish Randal had not written.  Read it yourself—­and don’t talk of it afterward.”

Mrs. Presty read: 

“I know nothing whatever of my unfortunate brother.  If you think this is a too-indulgent way of alluding to a man who has so shamefully wronged you, let my conviction that he is already beginning to suffer the penalty of his crime plead my excuse.  Herbert’s nature is, in some respects, better known to me than it is to you.  I am persuaded that your hold on his respect and his devotion is shaken—­not lost.  He has been misled by one of those passing fancies, disastrous and even criminal in their results, to which men are liable when they are led by no better influence than the influence of their senses.  It is not, and never will be, in the nature of women to understand this.  I fear I may offend you in what I am now writing; but I must speak what I believe to be the truth, at any sacrifice.  Bitter repentance (if he is not already feeling it) is in store for Herbert, when he finds himself tied to a person who cannot bear comparison with you.  I say this, pitying the poor girl most sincerely, when I think of her youth and her wretched past life.  How it will end I cannot presume to say.  I can only acknowledge that I do not look to the future with the absolute despair which you naturally felt when I last saw you.”