“No, for we never had debts.  Now I have, and I have this house for nearly three years longer.  It is not so easy to shake off engagements as you would a cloak that had grown too heavy.”

So saying, Mrs. Liddell rose and ascended to the room she shared with her daughter, whom she allowed to take off her dress and put on her wrapper, to arrange her pillows, to bathe her brow in eau-de-cologne and water, and soothe her with those loving touches, those tender cares, that the heart alone can prompt, till in spite of the cloud and thick darkness that hid her future, Mrs. Liddell was calmed by the delicious sense of her daughter’s love and sympathy.

“I will make a list of editors,” said Katherine—­“I mean those whom you have not tried—­and go round to them myself.  Perhaps I may bring you luck.”

“Yes; your young life is more likely to have fortune on its side:  the fickle jade has forsaken me.”

Katherine made no reply beyond a gentle kiss.  She sat silently by her mother’s side, till feeling the hand that held hers relax its hold, she slowly and softly withdrew her own, comforted to perceive that balmy sleep had stolen upon the weary woman.

Still she sat there thinking with all the force of her young brain, partly remembering, partly anticipating.

Of her father she had scarce any knowledge.  She was but four years old when he died, and her only brother was nearly fourteen.  The eldest and youngest of Mrs. Liddell’s children were the survivors of several.

Katherine’s memory of her childish days presented the dim picture of a quaint foreign town; of blue skies, bright sunshine, and abundant vegetation; of large rooms and a smiling black-eyed attendant in a peculiar head-dress; of some one lying back in a large chair, near whom she must never make a noise.  Then came a change; mother always in black, with a white cap, and often weeping, and of colder winters, snow and skating—­a happy time, for she was always with mother both in lesson and play time, whilst Fred used to go away early to school.  Next, clear and distinct, was the recollection of her first visit to London, and from this time she was the companion and confidante of her mother.  They were poor—­at least every outlay had to be carefully considered—­but Katie never knew the want of money.  Then came the excitement and preparation attending Fred’s departure for India, the mixture of sorrow and satisfaction with which her mother parted from him, of how bitterly she had cried herself; for though somewhat tyrannical, Fred had been always kind and generous.

How well she remembered the day he had left them never to return—­how her mother had clasped her to her heart and exclaimed:  “You must be all in all to me now, Katie.  I have done but little for you yet, dear, Fred needed so much.”

A spell of happy, busy life in Germany followed, enlivened by long letters from the young Indian officer, whose career seemed full of promise.  But when Katherine was a little more than thirteen sorrow fell upon them.  Fred’s letters had become irregular; then came a confession of weakness and debt, crowned by the supreme folly of marriage, concluding with a prayer for help.