“My dear, dearest Katherine!” cried the little woman, fluttering in, all fur and feathers, in the richest and most becoming morning toilette, looking prettier and younger than ever, “I am so delighted to see you once more!  Why have you staid in town, instead of coming straight to us?” and she embraced her tall sister-in-law effusively.

Katherine returned her embrace.  For a moment or two she could not command her voice; the sight of the known childish face, the sound of the shrill familiar voice, brought a flood of sudden sorrow over her heart; but Mrs. Ormonde was not the sort of woman to whom she could express it.

“And I am very glad to see you, Ada!  How well you are looking—­even younger and fairer than you used!”

“Yes, I am uncommonly well; and you, dear, you are looking pale and ill and older!  You will forgive me, but I am quite distressed.  You must come down to Castleford at once.”

“Thank you.  Where are the boys?  I hoped you would bring them.”

“Oh, Colonel Ormonde thought they would be too troublesome for me in a hotel, so I left them behind.  They were awfully disappointed, poor dears; but it is better you should come down and see them.  Cecil is going to school after Easter, and I believe Charlie must go soon.”

“I long to see them,” said Katherine, assisting her visitor to take off her cloak.

“And I long to show you my new little boy,” cried Mrs. Ormonde, drawing a chair to the fire, and putting her small, daintily shod feet on the fender.  “He is a splendid child, amazingly forward for six months.”

“I am glad you are so happy, Ada; I shall be pleased to make the acquaintance of my new nephew.  I suppose I may consider him a sort of nephew?”

“My dear, of course!  Colonel Ormonde, as well as myself, is proud to consider you his aunt.  Yes, I am very happy—­though Ormonde is rather provoking sometimes; still, he is not half bad, and I know how to manage him.  You are such a favorite with my husband, Katie.  He admires you so much, I sometimes threaten to be jealous—­why, what is the matter, dear?”

Katherine had suddenly covered her face with her handkerchief and burst into tears.

“Do not mind me, Ada!” she said, when she could speak.  “It was just that name; no one has called me Katie except my mother and you, and the idea that I should never hear her speak again overpowered me for a moment.”

Mrs. Ormonde was puzzled.  Not knowing what to do in face of a great grief, she took out her own pocket-handkerchief politely.

“Of course, dear,” she said; “it is quite natural.  I was awfully cut up when I heard of your sad loss—­and mine too, for I am sure Mrs. Liddell loved me like her own child; it was quite wonderful for a mother-in-law.  I was afraid to speak to you about her, but I am sure she would like you to live with us; it is your natural home.  And—­and she would, I am sure, be pleased if she can know what is going on here below, to see that you fulfilled your kind intentions to her poor little grandsons.”  These last words with some hesitation.