“But, Miss Payne, I have no right to think your brother ever wished to marry me.”

“Then you must be very dull.  I wonder he has not written before.  Oh, here is the postman!”

Katherine stepped through the window and took the letters from him.

“Only one for you and two for me,” she said, returning.  “One, I see, is from Ada.”  Opening it, she read as follows: 

“DEAREST KATHERINE,

“I write in great anxiety and surprise, as I see among the fashionable intelligence of the Morning Post that Lord de Burgh is on the point of leaving England for a tour in the Ural Mountains (of all places!) and will probably be absent for several months.  Can this be true? and, if so, what is the reason of it?  Is it possible that you have been so cruel, so insane, so wicked as to fly in the face of providence and refuse him?  You should remember your own poverty-stricken existence, and think of the boys.  Marriage with a man of De Burgh’s rank and fortune would be the making of them.  I have hidden away the paper, for, if the colonel saw it, it would drive him frantic.  Do write and let me mediate between you and De Burgh, if you are so mad as to have quarrelled with him.  I am feeling quite ill with all this excitement and worry.  I don’t think many women have been so sorely tried as myself.  Ever yours,
                                     “ADA ORMONDE.”

Having glanced through this composition, she handed it with a smile to Miss Payne, and opened the other letter, which was from Rachel.  This was very short and very mysterious.

“I have been introduced to your relative, Mr. George Liddell,” she wrote, “by his daughter.  We have had a conversation respecting you and other matters.  I cannot go into this now—­I only write to say that Mr. Liddell is going down to see you to-morrow or next day, and I earnestly trust you may be reconciled.  I am always your devoted RACHEL.”

“This is very extraordinary,” cried Katherine, when she had read it aloud.  “What can she mean by sending him down here!  I rather dread seeing him.”

“Nonsense,” returned Miss Payne, sternly.  “If that dressmaking friend of yours brings about a reconciliation between you and your very wrong-headed cousin, she will do a good deed.  I anticipate some important results from this interview—­you must see Mr. Liddell alone.”

“I suppose so.  I am sure I hope he will not snap my head off.”

“You are not the sort of girl to allow people to snap your head off.  But I am immensely puzzled to imagine what Miss Trant can have said or done to send this bush-ranger down here.  How did Mr. Liddell come to know her?”

“I can only suppose that his little girl, to whom I believe he is devoted, brought him to Rachel’s to get a dress tried on or to choose one.”

“It is very odd,” observed Miss Payne, thoughtfully.  “My letter,” she went on, after a moment’s pause, “is from my new tenant; he wants some additional furniture, which is just nonsense.  He has as much as is good for him; I’ll write and say I shall be in town on Monday, and call at Wilton Street to discuss matters.”