“Yes; and though she looks so pale and sad, she is not a whit less beautiful than she was.”

“Beautiful!” repeated Miss Payne.  “I rather admire her myself, but I don’t think any one could call her beautiful.”

“Perhaps not.  There is so much expression in her face, such feeling in her eyes, that not many really beautiful women would stand comparison with her.”

Miss Payne sniffed, and then she smiled.  “She is not a commonplace young woman, though I fear she is easily imposed upon.  I am afraid she may be snapped up by some plausible fortune-hunter.”

Bertie frowned slightly.  “I trust she may be guided to happiness with some good, God-fearing man,” he said, and then, he bid his sister good-night somewhat abruptly.

Meantime, Katherine sat plunged in thought beside the fire in her bedroom.  She was not given to weeping, but she was profoundly sad.  To find herself again in London without her mother seemed to renew the intense grief which had indeed lost but little of its keenness.  Never had a mother been more terribly missed.  They had been such sympathetic friends, such close companions; they had had such a hearty respect for and appreciation of each other’s qualities, such a pleasant comprehension of each other’s different tastes, that it would be hard to fill the place of the dear, lost comrade with whom she had hitherto walked hand in hand.  It soothed her to think of the delightful tranquility Mrs. Liddell had enjoyed for the last two years, of the untroubled sweetness of their intercourse, of her mother’s last contented words:  “I am quite happy, dear.  Your future is secure, and you have never given me a moment’s pain.  We have had such delightful days together!”

How could she have borne to have seen a pained, anxious look—­such a look as was once familiar to them—­in those dear eyes, as they closed forever on this mortal scene!  Oh, thank God for the heavenly security of those last days whatever the price she had paid for them!

Motherless, she was utterly desolate.  It would be long, long before she could find any one to fill her mother’s place, if she ever did.  For the present she was satisfied to stay with Miss Payne, but she did not think she could ever love her.  The idea of residing with Colonel Ormonde and his wife was distasteful.  The most attractive scheme was to beg her little nephews from their mother, and take them to live with her.  She was almost of age, and felt old enough to set up for herself.  As she pondered on these things she felt bitterly that, rich or poor, a homeless woman is a wretched creature.

At last she went to bed, and lay for a while watching the fire-light as it cast flickering shadows, thinking of the tender, watchful love which had dropped away out of her life; and with the murmured words, “Dear, dear mother!” on her lips she fell asleep.

The next day broke bright and clear, though cold, and having kept Katherine at home all day, Mrs. Ormonde made her appearance in time for afternoon tea.