But she lifted the key given her and went to the parlour.  It was a large, low room, with wainscoted walls, and a big tiled fireplace nearly filling one end of it.  The blinds were closed, but there was enough light to reveal its quaint and almost foreign character.  Great jars with dragons at the handles stood in the recesses made by large oak cabinets, black with age, and elaborately carved with a marvellous nicety and skill.  The oval tables were full of curious bits of china, dainty Oriental wicker work, exquisite shells on lacquered trays, wonderfully wrought workboxes and fans and amulets.  The odours of calamus and myrrh and camphor from strange continents mingled with the faint perfume of the dried rose leaves and the scent-bags of English lavender.  Many of these rare and beautiful things were the spoils brought from India and Java by the sea-going Van Heemskirks of past generations.  Others had come at long intervals as gifts from the captains of ships with whom the house did business.  Katherine had often seen such visitors—­men with long hair and fierce looks, and the pallor of hot, moist lands below the tan of wind and sunshine.  It had always been her delight to dust and care for these various treasures; and the room itself, with its suggestive aromas, was her favourite hiding-place.  Here she had made her own fairy tales, and built the enchanted castles which the less fortunate children of this day have clever writers build for them.

And at length the prince of her imagination had come!  As she moved about among the strange carven toys and beautiful ornaments, she could think only of him,—­of his stately manner and dark, handsome face.  Simple, even rustic, she might be; but she understood that he had treated her with as much deference and homage as if she had been a princess.  She recalled every word he said to her as they sat under the water beeches.  More vividly still she recalled the tender light in his eyes, the lingering clasp of his hand, his low, persuasive voice, and that nameless charm of fashion and culture which perhaps impressed her more than any other thing.

Among the articles she had to dust was a square Indian box with drawers.  It had always been called “the writing-box,” and it was partly filled with paper and other materials for letter-writing.  She stood before the open lid thoughtfully, and a sudden overwhelming desire to send some message of apology to Mrs. Gordon came into her heart.  She could write pretty well, and she had seen her mother and Joanna fold and seal letters; and, although she was totally inexperienced in the matter, she determined to make the effort.

[Illustration:  The quill pens must be mended]

There was nothing in the materials then to help her.  The letter paper was coarse; envelopes were unknown.  She would have to bring a candle into the room in order to seal it; and a candle could only be lit by striking a spark from the flint upon the tinder, and then igniting a brimstone match from it,—­unless she lit it at the kindled fire, which would subject her to questions and remonstrances.  Also, the quill pens must be mended, and the ink renewed.  But all these difficulties were overcome, one by one; and the following note was intrusted to the care of Diedrich Becker, the old man who worked in the garden and milked the cows: