had left Madame Danterre his fortune, and she wished her daughter to know that the large allowance she was able to make her was in consequence of this act of justice.  Molly would have had no inkling of the meaning of this sentence if Mrs. Carteret had come back to claim the letter from Lady Dawning which she had unintentionally left among the lawyer’s papers.  But this last, a closely-written large sheet of note-paper, lay between the letter from the lawyer in Florence, and other papers from the family lawyer in London, anent the will of the late Colonel Dexter and its taking effect on his daughter’s coming of age.

Molly turned carelessly from the question of L2000 and its interest at three and a half per cent. to the letter surmounted by a black initial and a coronet.

     “My dear Anne,—­

“I am not coming to stay in your neighbourhood as I had hoped.  I should have been very glad to have had a talk with you about Molly, if it had been possible, for her dear father’s sake.  Indeed, I think you are far from exaggerating the difficulties of the case.  You are very reluctant to take a house in London, and you say that if you did take one and gave up all your home duties you would not now have a circle of friends there who could be of any use to a girl of her age.  I feel that very likely you would be glad if my daughter would undertake her, and you are quite right in thinking that she would like a girl to take into the world.  But I must be frank with you, as I want to save you from pitfalls which I may be more able to foresee than you can in your secluded home.  My dear, I know that dear old John died without a penny:  why if he had had any fortune as a young man—­but, alas! he had none—­is it possible that, in a soldier’s life, with, for a few years, a madly extravagant wife to help him, he could conceivably have saved a capital that can produce L3000 a year!

“No, my dear Anne, the money is from her mother, and I must tell you that I’ve often wondered if that estimable lady is really dead at all.  Then, you know, that I always kept up with John, and that I knew something about Sir David Bright.  To conclude, Rose Bright is my cousin by marriage, and we are all dumbfounded at finding that she has been left L800 a year instead of twice as many thousands, and that the fortune has gone to a lady named Madame Danterre.  It is so old a story that I don’t think any one has read the conclusion aright except myself, and parole d’honneur, no one shall if I can help it.  I am too fond of poor John’s memory to want to hurt his child, only for the child’s own sake I would not advise you to bring her up to London.  I should keep her quietly with you, and trust to a man appearing on the scene—­it’s a thing you can trust to, where there is L3000 a year.  I daresay I could send some one your way quite quietly.  But don’t bring John’s girl to London, at any rate, just yet.

“I hope we may come within reach of you in the autumn.  I should
love to have a quiet day with you and to see Molly.