“Are you going to town on Monday?”

“Yes, I made up my mind when I read this,” tapping the letter.

“I suppose you don’t object to be left alone?  And there is the chance of Mrs. Needham coming down; probably she will stay over Monday.”

“I fear that is not very likely.”

No more was said on the subject then, but Katherine could not get her mind free from the idea of George Liddell’s anticipated visit.  She was quite willing to make friends with him, though his ungenerous and unreasonable conduct towards herself had impressed her most unfavorably.

The day passed over, however, without any visitor, nor was it until the following afternoon that Katherine was startled, in spite of her preparation, by the announcement that a gentleman wished to see Miss Liddell.

“I’ll go,” exclaimed Miss Payne, gathering up her knitting and a book, and she vanished swiftly in spite of rheumatic difficulties.

In another moment George Liddell stood before his dispossessed kinswoman, a tall, gaunt figure with grizzled hair and sunken eyes.  He took the hand she offered in silence, and then exclaimed, abruptly,

“You knew I was coming?”

“Yes, Rachel Trant told me.  Will you not sit down?”

He drew a chair beside her work-table, and looking at her for a minute exclaimed, in harsh tones which yet showed emotion,

“You are a good woman!”

“How have you found that out?” asked Katherine, smiling.

“I will answer by a long, cruel story!” he returned with a sigh; “a story I would tell to none but you.”  Again he paused, looking down as if collecting his thoughts, while the brown, bony, sinewy hand he laid on the table was tightly clenched.  “You knew my father,” he began, suddenly raising his dark suspicious eyes to her, “and therefore can understand what an exacting tyrant he could be to those who were in his power.  As a mere child I feared him and shrank from him; my earliest recollection was of my mother’s care in keeping me from him.  He was not violent to her—­I don’t suppose he ever struck her, but he treated her with cold contempt, why, I never understood, except that she cost him money, and brought him none.  I won’t unman myself by describing what her life was, or how passionately I loved her; we clung to each other as desolate, persecuted creatures only do!  He grudged us the food we ate, the clothes—­rather the rags—­we wore.  One day playing in Regent’s Park I fell into the canal, and was nearly drowned.  A gentleman went in after me and saved me.  He took me home, he gave me to my mother, he often met us after.  He gave me treats and money,—­I can’t dwell on this time.  He won my mother’s love, chiefly through me.  He was going away to the new world.  He persuaded her to leave her wretched home, to take me,—­we escaped.  I shall never forget the joy of those few days!  Then my father (as we might have known he would) put