“I cannot deny that I recognize you,” said Newton, reluctantly.

Liddell laughed scornfully.  “And you?” turning to Katherine.

“I have no doubt you are my cousin George.”

“Right!  As to that fellow Tom—­he would never have hurt me, but I am sure he robbed me, especially if he thought I was dead.  His game was to hold himself harmless whether I lived or died, only he ought not to have committed himself to seeing me buried.  I found him out in Liverpool, and gave him a fright, for he really believed me dead.  Now, cousin, I hope you understand that I mean to take every farthing of my father’s fortune.  He never did me much good in my life, nor my poor mother either, and I am determined to get all I can out of what he has left behind him.  But I never dreamed he could pass away without taking care that nothing should come to me.  It is strange that your mother and my uncle should make no fresh attempt to discover me.”

“We had looked upon you as dead for years, and my father had died before the news of your supposed murder reached us.”  Katherine could hardly steady her voice; she was burning to get away.  “I beg you will not resent the fact of my most unconscious usurpation.  I would not do anything unjust.”  She stopped, remembering what she had done.  Surely the punishment was coming quick upon her.

“Ay,” said George Liddell, looking sternly at her.  “It is a bitter pill for a fine lady like you to swallow, to find a ragged outcast like me thrusting you from the place you have no right to; where my poor little wild untutored girl will take her stand in spite of you all.”

“From what I have heard, I do not think my father or mother ever treated you as an outcast,” said Katherine, with quiet dignity; adding, as she rose to leave them, “You seem so irritated against me I will leave you with Mr. Newton, who will, I know, act as a true friend to both of us.”

Mr. Newton, with a grave and troubled face, hastened after to see her to her carriage.  “This is an awful blow!” he said in a low voice.

“It is, no doubt.  Do you think, as he is already rich, that he might do something for the boys?  Then I should not care.”

“The boys!”—­impatiently.  “You need not trouble about them when he has the power to rob you even of the trifle you inherit from your father by demanding the arrears of income since your uncle’s death, as he has the right to do.  Why, he can beggar you!”

“Indeed!  He looks like a hard man; he is like his father.”

“Well, trust me, I will do my best for you.”

“I know you will,” returned Katherine, pressing the old lawyer’s hand as he leaned against the carriage door.

“Good-by!  God bless you!” he returned; and Katherine was carried away from him.  Slowly and sadly the old man ascended to his office again to confront the angry claimant, who awaited him impatiently.