Blanche hardly noticed her presence; she was too rapt in the providential happenings described to her by the garrulous pen of her stepmother.  The very crackle of the paper between her fingers gave her fresh courage as she read.  And yet it was a very simple letter, coming as it did from the simple woman who she so often said had nothing in common with herself.

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“Dear Blanche,” ran the letter, “I wonder how much longer you are going to stay in Cornwall?  Your father feels it hard that you should not spend any of your holiday with him, and I don’t think will go on much longer with your allowance if you are neither working nor staying at home.  You know he was determined you should have your chance to become a great actress, as you were so set on it and discontented at home, and indeed I do not blame you, for I know how dull it is here.  However, just at present the neighbourhood is very lively, as we have a new lord of the manor—­only imagine it!  You know old Mr. Crossthwaite died in the spring and the place has been sold this summer to a very rich young man—­trade, I think, but quite a gentleman; you would never know the difference, and has been educated at Cambridge, I am told.  He seems a quite nice young man, and all the neighbours are making him give parties and giving them themselves, I believe to try and marry him to one of their daughters, but as you know there is nobody much here now.  There are Dr. Smythe’s daughters, but they are so very plain, poor dears! and the only others are Lady Geraldine and Lady Sybil, and I don’t suppose they would look at him, being so much older and occupied in their charities, even if he were inclined, so I’m sure we can’t blame the young man if he refuses to fall in love at all down here.  If you were here I expect it would be a very different story; he’s just your type, if you know what I mean, very like your Mr. Bellew, poor young man.  I wonder what has happened to him.  I did hear he married a barmaid, and I’m sure it was a judgment on his mother for saying he was too young to marry you.  Well, there is no more news, except that that silly little housemaid I got a good place for at the Hall is in trouble—­the gamekeeper, I believe; but she is very obstinate and won’t say.  These girls are enough to make one give up trying to help them.  Also the carpet in the drawing-room is right through at last, so I am in hopes of persuading your father we really must have a new one.  I don’t think it looks at all well for the rector of the parish to have a carpet that callers have to be warned not to catch their feet in.  The rug cannot be made to cover it as it’s right in the middle.  I do my best with an occasional table, but then that gets in the way.  With love, my dear Blanche, from myself and your father, believe me,

“Yours affectionately,

“MARY LETITIA GREY.”

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