“It was dreadfully foolish to go up to town in this heat,” said Miss Payne, severely, when she brought up some tea to Katherine’s room, where she retreated on her arrival.  “I dare say you could have written for what you wanted.”

“Not exactly”—­with a faint smile.

“I never saw you look so ill.  You must take some sal volatile, and lie down.  If there had been much sun, I should have said you had had a sunstroke.  I hope, however, a good night’s rest will set you up.”

“No doubt it will; so I will try and sleep now.”

“Quite right.  I will leave you, and tell the boys you cannot see them till to-morrow.”  So Miss Payne, who had a grand power of minding her own affairs and abstaining from troublesome questions, softly closed the door behind her.

It took some time to rally from the overwhelming humiliation of this crisis.  Katherine came slowly back to herself, yet not quite herself.  Miss Payne had been so much disturbed by her loss of appetite, of energy, of color, that she had insisted on consulting the local doctor, who pronounced her to be suffering from low fever and nervous depression.  He prescribed tonics and warm sea-water baths, which advice Katherine meekly followed.  Soon, to the pride of the Sandbourne AEsculapius, a young practitioner, she showed signs of improvement, and declared herself perfectly well.

Perhaps the tonic which had assisted her to complete recovery was a letter which reached her about a week after the interview that had affected her so deeply.  It was addressed in large, firm, clear writing, which was strange to her.

“I venture to trouble you with a few words,” (it ran) “because when last I saw you I was profoundly impressed by the suffering you could not hide.  I cannot refrain from writing to entreat you will accept the position in which you are placed.  Having done your best to rectify what is now irrevocable, be at peace with your conscience.  I am the only individual entitled to complain or interfere with your succession, and I fully, freely make over to you any rights I possess.  Had your uncle’s fortune passed to me, it would have been an injustice for which I should have felt bound to atone:  nor would you have refused my proposition to this effect.  Consider this page of your life blotted out, casting it from your mind.  Use and enjoy your future as a woman of your nature, so far as I understand it, can do.  It will probably be long before I see you again—­which I regret the less because it might pain you to meet me before time has blunted the keen edge of your self-reproach.  Absent or present, however, I shall always be glad to know that you are well and happy. 
         “Will you let me have a line in reply? 
               “Yours faithfully, MILES ERRINGTON.”