After all, the fates sent us a chaperon.  A letter came addressed to my mother, and proved to be from the clergyman of a village in the remotest corner of Devonshire, where a cousin of my father had once been vicar.  His widow, the daughter of his predecessor, had lived on there, but, owing to the misdoings of her son and the failure of a bank, she was in much distress.  All intercourse with the family had dropped since my father’s death, but the present vicar, casting about for means of helping her, had elicited that the Arghouse family were the only relations she knew of, and had written to ask assistance for her.

“I will go and see about her,” said Harold.  So he shouldered his bag, walked into Mycening, and started in the tender, the only place where he could endure railway travelling.  Four days later came this note: 

“Thursday.

“My Dear Lucy,—­Send the carriage to meet Mrs. Alison at 4.40 on
Saturday.  Your affectionate
                                                “H.  A.”

I handed the note to Eustace in amazement, but I perceived that he, like his cousin, thought it quite simple that the home of the head of the family should be a refuge for all its waifs and strays, and as I was one myself, I felt rebuked.

I went to Mycening in the carriage, and beheld Harold emerge from a first-class, extracting therefrom one basket after another, two bird-cages, a bundle, an umbrella, a parcel, a cloak, and, finally, a little panting apple-cheeked old lady.  “Here’s Lucy! that’s right.”  And as both his hands were full, he honoured me with a hasty kiss on the forehead.  “She’ll take care of you, while I get the rest of it.”

“But, oh!—­my dear man—­my pussy—­and—­and your wadded cloak—­and, oh—­my sable muff—­your poor papa’s present, I would not lose it for a thousand pounds!”

I found the muff, which could not easily be overlooked, for it was as big as a portmanteau, and stuffed full of sundries.  “Oh dear yes, my dear, thank you, so it is; but the cat—­my poor pussy.  No, my dear, that’s the bantams—­very choice.  My poor little Henry had them given to him when he was six years old—­the old ones I mean—­and I’ve never parted with them.  ‘Take them all,’ he said—­so good; but, oh dear.  Tit!  Tit!  Tittie!  He was playing with her just now.  Has anyone seen a tabby cat?  Bless me, there it goes!  So dreadful!  It takes one’s breath away, and all my things.  Oh! where is he?”

“All right,” said Harold.  “There are your boxes, and here’s your cat,” showing a striped head under his coat.  “Now say what you want to-night, and I’ll send for the rest.”

She looked wildly about, uttering an incoherent inventory, which Harold cut short by handing over articles to the porter according to his own judgment, and sweeping her into the carriage, returning as I was picking up the odds and ends that had been shed on the way.  “You have had a considerable charge,” said I, between amusement and dismay.