Mother said at once that it was a matter of course that you should go to England; but your friend, whose name we never heard, said that you had sent him especially to promise that you would write quite immediately, and that you would come back very soon.  I do not know what he will think of me, because I asked him whether he was quite, quite sure that you would come back.  If he thinks that I love you better than my own soul, he only thinks the truth.

Pray,—­pray write at once.  Mother is getting vexed because there is no letter.  I am never vexed with my own darling love, but I do so long for a letter.  If you knew how I felt, I do think you would write almost every day,—­if it were only just one short word.  If you would say, ‘Dear Love,’ that would be enough.  And pray come.  Oh do, do, pray come!  Cannot you think how I must long to see you!  The gentleman who came here said that you would come, and I know you will.  But pray come soon.  Think, now, how you are all the world to me.  You are more than all the world to me.

I am not ill as I was when you were here.  But I never go outside the door now.  I never shall go outside the door again till you come.  I don’t care now for going out upon the rocks.  I don’t care even for the birds as you are not here to watch them with me.  I sit with the skin of the seal you gave me behind my head, and I pretend to sleep.  But though I am quite still for hours I am not asleep, but thinking always of you.

We have neither seen or heard anything more of my father, and Father Marty says that you have managed about that very generously.  You are always generous and good.  I was so wretched all that day, that I thought I should have died.  You will not think ill of your Kate, will you, because her father is bad?

   Pray write when you get this, and above all things let us know
   when you will come to us.

   Always, always, and always,

   Your own

   Kate.

Two days after this, while the letter was still unanswered, there came another from Mrs. O’Hara which was, if possible, more grievous to him than that from her daughter.

“My Lord,” the letter began.  When he read this he turned from it with a sickening feeling of disgust.  Of course the woman knew that he was now Earl of Scroope; but it would have been so desirable that there should have been no intercourse between her and him except under the name by which she had hitherto known him.  And then in the appellation as she used it there seemed to be a determination to reproach him which must, he knew, lead to great misery.

   My lord,