Katherine never could distinctly remember what she did after leaving Errington. She was humbled in the dust—crushed, dazed. She felt that every one must perceive the stamp of "felon" upon her.

The passionate desire to restore his rightful possessions to Errington, to confess all, had carried her through the dreadful interview. She was infinitely grateful to him for the kind tact with which he concealed the profound contempt her confession must have evoked, but no doubt that sentiment was now in full possession of his mind. It showed in his unhesitating, even scornful, rejection of her offered restitution. She almost regretted having made the attempt, and yet she had a kind of miserable satisfaction in having told the truth, the whole truth, to Errington; anything was better than wearing false colors in his sight.

It was this sense of deception that had embittered her intercourse with him at Castleford; otherwise she would have been gratified by his grave friendly preference.

How calm, how unmoved, he seemed amid the wreck of his fortunes. Yes, his was true strength—the strength of self-mastery. How different, how far nobler than the vehemence of De Burgh's will, which was too strong for his guidance! But Lady Alice could never have loved Errington—never—or she would have loved on and waited for him till the time came when union might be possible. Had she been in her place! But at the thought her heart throbbed wildly with the sudden perception that she could have loved him well, with all her soul, and rested on him, confident in his superior wisdom and strength—a woman's ideal love. And before this man she had been obliged to lay down her self-respect, to confess she had cheated him basely, to resign his esteem for ever! It was a bitter punishment, but even had she been stainless and he a free man, she, Katherine, was not the sort of girl he would like. She was too impulsive, too much at the mercy of her emotions, too quick in forming and expressing opinions. No; the feminine reserve and tranquility of Lady Alice were much more likely to attract his affections and call forth his respect. This was an additional ingredient of bitterness, and Katherine felt herself an outcast, undeserving of tenderness or esteem.

The weather was oppressively warm and sunless. A dim instinctive recollection of her excuse for coming to town forced Katherine to visit some of the shops where she was in the habit of dealing, and then she sat for more than a weary hour in the Ladies' Room at Waterloo Station, affecting to read a newspaper which she did not see, waiting for the train that would take her home to the darkness and stillness in which friendly night would hide her for a while. The journey back was a continuation of the same tormenting dream-like semi-consciousness, and by the time she reached Cliff Cottage she felt physically ill.

"It was dreadfully foolish to go up to town in this heat," said Miss Payne, severely, when she brought up some tea to Katherine's room, where she retreated on her arrival. "I dare say you could have written for what you wanted."

"Not exactly"—with a faint smile.

"I never saw you look so ill. You must take some sal volatile, and lie down. If there had been much sun, I should have said you had had a sunstroke. I hope, however, a good night's rest will set you up."

"No doubt it will; so I will try and sleep now."

"Quite right. I will leave you, and tell the boys you cannot see them till to-morrow." So Miss Payne, who had a grand power of minding her own affairs and abstaining from troublesome questions, softly closed the door behind her.

It took some time to rally from the overwhelming humiliation of this crisis. Katherine came slowly back to herself, yet not quite herself. Miss Payne had been so much disturbed by her loss of appetite, of energy, of color, that she had insisted on consulting the local doctor, who pronounced her to be suffering from low fever and nervous depression. He prescribed tonics and warm sea-water baths, which advice Katherine meekly followed. Soon, to the pride of the Sandbourne Æsculapius, a young practitioner, she showed signs of improvement, and declared herself perfectly well.

Perhaps the tonic which had assisted her to complete recovery was a letter which reached her about a week after the interview that had affected her so deeply. It was addressed in large, firm, clear writing, which was strange to her.

"I venture to trouble you with a few words," (it ran) "because when last I saw you I was profoundly impressed by the suffering you could not hide. I cannot refrain from writing to entreat you will accept the position in which you are placed. Having done your best to rectify what is now irrevocable, be at peace with your conscience. I am the only individual entitled to complain or interfere with your succession, and I fully, freely make over to you any rights I possess. Had your uncle's fortune passed to me, it would have been an injustice for which I should have felt bound to atone: nor would you have refused my proposition to this effect. Consider this page of your life blotted out, casting it from your mind. Use and enjoy your future as a woman of your nature, so far as I understand it, can do. It will probably be long before I see you again—which I regret the less because it might pain you to meet me before time has blunted the keen edge of your self-reproach. Absent or present, however, I shall always be glad to know that you are well and happy.

"Will you let me have a line in reply?
"Yours faithfully,
Miles Errington."

The perusal of this letter brought Katherine the infinite relief of tears. How good and generous he was! How heartily she admired him! How gladly she confessed her own inferiority to him! Forgiven by him, she could face life again with a sort of humble courage. But oh! it would be impossible to meet his eyes. No; years would not suffice to blunt the keen self-reproach which the thought of him must always call up—the shame, the pride, the dread, the tender gratitude. Long and passionately she wept before she could recover sufficiently to write him the reply he asked. Then it seemed to her that the bitterness and cruel remorse had been melted and washed away by these warm grateful tears. He forgave her, and she could endure the pressure of her shameful secret more easily in future. At last she took her pen, and feeling that the lines she was about to trace would be a final farewell, wrote:

"My words must be few, for none I can find will express my sense of the service yours have done me. I accept your gift. I will try and follow your advice. Shall the day ever come when you will honor me by accepting part of what is your own? Thank you for your kind suggestion not to meet me; it would be more than I could bear. Yours, Katherine."

Then with deepest regret she tore up his precious letter into tiny morsels, and striking a match, consumed them. It would not do to incur the possibility of such a letter being read by any third pair of eyes. Moreover, she was careful to post her reply herself. And so, as Errington said, that page of her story was blotted out, at least, from the exterior world, but to her own mind it would be ever present: round this crisis her deepest, most painful, ay, and sweetest memories would cling. It was past, however, and she must take up her life again.

She felt something of the weakness, the softness, which convalescents experience when first they begin to go about after a long illness, the dreamy, quiet pleasure of coming back to life. The boys continued to be her deepest interest. So time went on, and no one seemed to perceive the subtle change which had sobered her spirit.

The season was over, and Mrs. Ormonde descended on Cliff Cottage for a parting visit. She had only given notice of her approach by a telegram.

"You know you are quite too obstinate, Katherine," she said, as the sisters-in-law sat together in the drawing-room, waiting for the cool of the evening before venturing out. "You never came to me all through the season except once, when you wanted to shop, and now you refuse to join us at Castleford in September, when we are to have really quite a nice party: Mr. De Burgh and Lord Riversdale and—oh! several really good men."

"I dare say I do seem stupid to you, but then, you see, I know what I want. You are very good to wish for me. Next year I shall be very pleased to pay you a visit."

"Then what in the world will you do in the winter?"

"Remain where I am—I mean with Miss Payne—and look out for a house for myself."

"But, my dear, you are much too young to live alone."

"I am twenty-one now; I shall be twenty-two by the time I am settled in a house of my own. And, Ada, I am going to ask you a favor. Lend me your boys to complete my respectability."

"What! for altogether? Why, Katherine, you will marry, and—"

"Well, suppose I do, that need not prevent my having the comfort of my nephews' company until the fatal knot is tied."

"Now, dear Katherine, do tell me—are you engaged to any one? Not a foreigner?—anything but a foreigner!"

"At present," said Katherine, with some solemnity, "I am engaged to two young men."

"My dear! You of all young girls! I am astonished. There is nothing so deep, after all, as a demure young woman. I suppose you are in a scrape, and want Colonel Ormonde to help you out of it?"

"I think I can manage my own affairs."

"Don't be too sure. A girl with money like you is just the subject for a breach-of-promise case. Do I know either of these men?"

"Yes, both."

"Who are they?" cried Mrs. Ormonde, with deepening interest.

"Cis and Charlie," returned Katherine, laughing.

"I really cannot see anything amusing in this sort of stupid mystification," cried Mrs. Ormonde, in a huff.

"Pray forgive me; but your determination to marry me out of hand tempts me to such naughtiness. However, be forgiving, and lend me the boys till next spring. They might go to Castleford for Christmas."

"Oh no," interrupted Mrs. Ormonde, hastily. "I forgot to mention that Ormonde has almost promised to spend next Christmas in Paris. It is such a nuisance to be in one's own place at Christmas; there is such work distributing blankets and coals and things. If one is away, a check to the rector settles everything. I assure you the life of a country gentleman is not all pleasure."

"Then you will let me have the boys?"

"Well, dear, if you really like it, I do not see, when you have such a fancy, why you should not be indulged."

"Thank you. And I may choose a school for Cis?"

"I am sure the neither Ormonde nor I would interfere; just now it is of no great importance. But—of course—that is—I should like some allowance for myself out of their money."

"Of course you should have whatever you are in the habit of receiving."

After this, Mrs. Ormonde was most cordial in her approbation of everything suggested by her sister-in-law. The friendly conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Cecil with his satchel over his shoulder. He went straight to his young aunt and hugged her.

"Well, Cis, I see you don't care for mother now," exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, easily moved to jealousy, as she always was.

"Oh yes, I do! only you don't like me to jump on you, and auntie doesn't mind about her clothes." And he kissed her heartily.

"Do you want to come back to Castleford?"

"What, now? when the holidays begin next week?"—this with a rueful expression. "Why, we were to have a sailing boat, and old Norris the sailor and his boy are to come out every evening."

"Then you don't want to come?"

"Oh, mayn't we stay a little longer, mother? It is so nice here!"

"You may stay as long as your aunt cares to keep you, for all I care," cried Mrs. Ormonde, somewhat spitefully.

"Oh, thank you, mother dear—thank you!" throwing his arms round her neck. "I'll be such a good boy when I come back; but it is nice here. Then you have baby, and he does not worry you as much as we do." Katherine thought this a very significant reply.

"There! there!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, disengaging herself from the warm clinging arms. "Go and wash your hands; they are frightfully dirty."

"It's clean dirt, mother. I stopped on the beach to help Tom Damer to build up a sand fort."

"Why did Miss North let you?"

"Oh, I was by myself! I don't want any one to take care of me," said Cecil, proudly.

"Good heavens! do you let the child walk about alone?" cried Mrs. Ormonde, with an air of surprise and indignation.

"Run away to Miss North," said Katherine, and as Cecil left the room she replied: "As Cecil is nine years old, Ada, and a very bright boy, I think he may very well be let to take care of himself. The school is not far, and he cannot learn independence too soon."

"Perhaps so. But of course you know better than I do. You were always more learned, and all that; besides, you are not over anxious, as a mother would be."

"Nor careless either," said Katherine thinking of the nights at Castleford when she used to steal to the bedside, of little feverish, restless Charlie, while his mother kept within the bounds of her own luxurious chamber.

"No, no; certainly not," returned Mrs. Ormonde, remembering it was as well not to offend so strong a person as she felt Katherine to be. "Only Cecil is a tiresome, self-willed boy, and very likely to get into mischief."

"If you wish it, Ada, I shall, of course, have him escorted to and fro to school."

"Oh, just as you like. I suppose you know the place better than I do."

"Colonel Ormonde has never come down to see me," resumed Katherine, after a pause. "You must tell him I am quite hurt."

"Well, dear, you must know that Duke is rather vexed with you."

"Vexed with me! Why?" asked Katherine, opening her eyes.

"You see, he thinks you ought to have come to us for a while; and then De Burgh came back from this last time in such a bad temper that my husband thought you were not behaving well to him—making a fool of him, in short; inviting him down here to amuse yourself, and then refusing him, if you did refuse."

"No, I did not; for Mr. De Burgh never gave me an opportunity," cried Katherine, indignantly. "Nor did I ever ask him here. I cannot prevent his coming and lodging at the hotel. I am quite ready to talk to him, because he amuses me, but I am not bound to marry every man who does. Tell Colonel Ormonde so, with my compliments."

"I am sure I don't want you to marry De Burgh! Indeed, I am surprised at Duke; but you see, being chums and relations (and men stick together so), that he only thinks of De Burgh, who, entre nous, has been awfully fast. He is amusing, and very distingue, but I am afraid he only cares for your money, dear."

"Very likely," returned Katherine, with much composure.

"Then another reason why the Colonel does not care to come down is that he has a great dislike to that Miss Payne. She is really hostess here, and it worries Duke to have to be civil to her."

"Why?" asked Katherine. "I can imagine her being an object of perfect indifference; but dislike—no!"

"Well, dear, men never like that sort of women;—people, you know, who eke out their living by—doing things, when they are plain and old. Handsome adventuresses are quite another affair—they are amusing and attractive."

"How absurd and unreasonable!"

"Yes, of course; they are all like that. Then he thinks Miss Payne has a bad and dangerous influence on you. He disapproves of your living on with her, for you don't take the position you ought, and—"

Katherine laughed good-humoredly as Mrs. Ormonde paused, not knowing very well how to finish her speech. "Colonel Ormonde will hide the light of his countenance from me, then, I am afraid, for a long time; for I like Miss Payne, and I am going to stay with her for the period agreed upon; and I will not marry Mr. De Burgh, nor will I let him ask me to do so, for there is a degree of honesty about him which I like. You may repeat all this to your husband, Ada, and add that but for a lucky chance his wife and myself would have been among the sort of women who eke out their living by doing things. I don't think I should be afraid of attempting self-support if all my money were swept away."

"Don't talk of such a thing!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, turning pale. "Thank God what you have settled on the boys is safe!"

Katherine's half-contemptuous good humor carried her serenely through this rather irritating visit, but the totally different train of thought which it evoked assisted her to recover her ordinary mental tone. It was, however, touched by a minor key of sadness, of humility (save when roused by any moving cause to indignation), which gave the charm of soft pensiveness to her manner.

Mrs. Ormonde was rather in a hurry to go back to town, as she had important interviews impending with milliner and dressmaker prior to a visit to Lady Mary Vincent at Cowes, from which she expected the most brilliant results, for the little woman's social ambition grew with what it fed upon. Nor did the rational repose of Katherine's life suit her. Books, music, out-door existence, were a weariness, and in spite of her loudly declared affection for her sister-in-law she found a curious restraint in conversing with her.

They parted, therefore, with many kind expressions and much satisfaction.

"I will write you an account of all our doings at Cowes. I expect it will be very gay and pleasant there. How I wish you were to be of the party, instead of moping here!" said Mrs. Ormonde.

"Thank you. I should like it all, no doubt, but not just now. I will keep you informed of our small doings."

So Mrs. Ormonde steamed on her way rejoicing, and Katherine re-entered a pretty low pony-carriage in which she drove a pair of quiet, well-broken ponies, selected for her by Bertie Payne, whose conversion had not obliterated his carnal knowledge of horseflesh. A small groom always accompanied her, for though improved by the practice of driving, she did not like to be alone with her steeds.

She had nearly reached the chief street of Sandbourne, when a tall gentleman in yachting dress strolled slowly round the corner of a lane which led to the beach. He paused and raised his hat. She recognized De Burgh and drew up.

"And so you are driving in capital style," was his greeting; "all by yourself, too. Will you give me a lift back?"

"Certainly. Where have you come from?"

"Melford's yacht. I escorted my revered relative, old De Burgh, down to Cowes. He has a little villa there. As he has grown quite civil of late, I think it right to encourage him. Melford was there, and invited me to take a short cruise. So I made him land me here just now. The yacht is still in the offing. Lady Alice was on board."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Katherine, with much interest. "How is she?"

"So far as one can judge from the exterior, remarkably well, and exactly the same as ever. It is rather funny, but they had Renshaw on board too, the son of the big brewer who has bought, or is going to buy, Errington's house in Berkeley Square. I fancy it is not impossible he may come in for Errington's ex-fiancee as well as his ex-residence."

"It cannot be, surely!" cried Katherine, flushing with a curious feeling.

"Why not? I don't say immediately. I have no doubt everything will be done decently and in order."

"Well, it is incomprehensible."

"Not to me. What can—(Make that little brute on the off side keep up to the collar. You want a few lessons from me still.) What can a girl like Lady Alice do? She is an earl's daughter. She cannot dig; to beg she is ashamed; she must therefore take to herself a husband from the mammon of unaristocratic money-grubbers."

"I should like to meet her again—poor Lady Alice!" said Katherine, more to herself than to her companion.

"I think you are wasting your commiseration," he returned. "She seems quite happy."

"She may be successful in hiding her feelings."

De Burgh laughed. "Tell me," he asked, "do you really think Errington is the sort of fellow women break their hearts about?"

"I cannot tell. He seems to me very good and very nice."

"That is a goody-goody description. Well done!"—as Katherine guided her ponies successfully through the gate of her abode and turned them round the gravel sweep. "I must say you have a pretty little nook here."

"Had you arrived an hour sooner you would have seen Mrs. Ormonde. I have just seen her off by the 12.30 train. She has been paying us a farewell visit, and is gone to Lady Mary Vincent."

"Indeed! She will have her cup of pleasure running over there; they live in a flutter of gayety all day long."

Here De Burgh sprang to the ground and assisted Katherine to alight.

"Will you lunch with us?" she asked, an additional tinge of color mounting to her cheek; for she knew De Burgh was no favorite of Miss Payne, who was no doubt rejoicing at the prospect of repose and deliverance from their late guest, who generally managed to rub her hostess the wrong way.

"You are very kind. I shall be delighted."

While Katherine went ostensibly to put aside her hat—really to warn Miss Payne—De Burgh strolled into the drawing-room. How cool and fresh and sweet with abundant flowers it was! An air of refined homeliness about it, the work and books and music on the open piano, spoke of well-occupied repose. Its simplicity was graceful, and indicated the presence of a cultured woman.

De Burgh wandered to the window—a wide bay—and took from a table which stood in it a cabinet photograph of Katherine, taken about a year before. He was absorbed in contemplating it when she came in, and he made a step to meet her. "This is very good," he said. "Where was it taken?"

"In Florence."

"It is like"—looking intently at her, and then at the picture. "But you are changed in some indescribable way, changed since I saw you last, years ago—that is, a month—isn't it a month since you drove me from paradise?—but you don't remember."

"But, Mr. De Burgh, I did not drive you away. You got bored, and went away of your own free-will."

"I shall not argue the point with you—not now; but tell me," with a very steady gaze into her eyes, "has anything happened since I left to waken up your soul? It was by no means asleep when I saw you last, but it has met with an eye-opener of some kind, I am convinced."

"I should not have given you credit for so much imagination, Mr. De Burgh."

Here Miss Payne made her appearance, and the boys followed. They were treated with unusual good-humor and bonhomie by De Burgh, who actually took Charlie on his knee and asked him some questions about boating, which occupied them till lunch was announced.

Miss Payne was too much accustomed to yield to circumstances not to accept De Burgh's attempts to be amiable and agreeable. He could be amusing when he chose; there was an odd abruptness, a candid avowal of his views and opinions, when he was in the mood, that attracted Katherine.

"You are a funny man!" said Cecil, after gazing at him in silence as he finished his repast. "I wish you would come out in the boat with us. Auntie said we might go."

"Very well; ask her if I may come."

"He may, mayn't he?"—chorus from both boys.

"Yes, if you really care to come: but do not let the children tease you."

"Do you give me credit for being ready to do what I don't like?"

"I can't say I do."

"When do you start on this expedition?"

"About seven, which will interfere with your dinner, for Miss Payne and I have adopted primitive habits, and do not dine late; we indulge in high tea instead."

"Nevertheless, I shall meet you at the jetty. Till then adieu."

"May we come with you?" cried the boys together—"just as far as the hotel?"

"No, dears; you must stay at home," said Katherine, decidedly.

"Then do let him come and see how the puppy is. He has grown quite big."

"Yes, I'll come round to the kennel if you'll show me the way," replied De Burgh, with a smiling glance at Katherine. "Till this evening, then," he added, and bowing to Miss Payne, left the room, the boys capering beside him.

"I should say that man has breakfasted on honey this morning," observed Miss Payne, with a sardonic smile. "Does he think that he has only to come, to see, and to conquer?"

"He has been quite pleasant," said Katherine. "I wonder why he is not always nice? He used to be almost rude at Castleford sometimes." She paused, while Miss Payne rose from the table and began to lock away the wine. "I wonder what has become of Mr. Payne? He has not been here for a long time."

"What made you think of him?" asked his sister, sharply.

"I suppose the force of contrast reminded me of him. What a difference between Bertie and Mr. De Burgh!—your brother living only to help others, and utterly forgetful of self; he regardless of everything but the gratification of his own fancies—at least so far as we can see."

"Yes; Mr. De Burgh can hardly be termed a true Christian. Still, Gilbert is rather too weak and credulous. I suspect he is very often taken in."

"Is it not better he should be sometimes, dear Miss Payne, than that some poor deserving creature should perish for want of help?"

"Well, I don't know. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if that law were more carefully obeyed, fewer would need help."

"Life is an unsolvable problem," said Katherine, and the remark reminded her of her humble friend Rachel. She therefore sat down and wrote her a kind, sympathetic letter, feeling some compunction for having allowed so long an interval to elapse since her last.

Her own troubles had occupied her too much. Now that time was beginning to accustom her to their weight, her deep interest in Rachel revived even with more than its original force. Katherine did not make intimates readily. Let there be ever so small a nook in the mind, ever so tiny an incident in the past, which must be hidden from all eyes, and there can be no free pass for outsiders, however dear or valued, to the sanctum of the heart, which must remain sealed, a whispering gallery for its own memories and aspirations. But Rachel Trant never dreamed of receiving confidence, nor, after once having strung herself up to tell her sad story, did she allude to her bitter past, save by an occasional word expressing her profound sense of the new life she owed to Katherine; nor did the latter, when talking with her face to face, ever realize that there was any social difference between them. Rachel's voice, manner, diction, and natural refinement were what might be expected from a gentlewoman, only that through all sounded a strain of harsh strength, the echo of that fierce despair from whose grip the tender consideration of her new friend had delivered her. The evening's sail was very tranquil and soothing. De Burgh was agreeable in the best way; that is, he was sympathetically silent, except when Katherine spoke to him. The boys and their governess sat together in the bow of the boat, where they talked merrily together, occasionally running aft to ask more profound questions of De Burgh and auntie. Fear of rheumatism and discomfort generally kept Miss Payne at home on these occasions.

De Burgh walked with Miss Liddell to her own door, but wisely refused to enter. "No," he mused, as he proceeded to his hotel; "I have had enough of a solitude a trois. It's an uncomfortable, tantalizing thing, and though I have been positively angelic for the last seven or eight hours, I can't stand any more intercourse under Miss Payne's paralyzing optics. I wonder if any fellow can keep up a heavenly calm for more than twenty-four hours? Depends on the circulation of the blood. I wonder still more if it is possible that Katherine is more disposed to like me than she was? She is somehow different than when I was here last. So divinely soft and kind! I have known a score or two of fascinating women, and gone wild about a good many, but this is different, why the deuce should she not love me? Most of the others did. Why? God knows. I'll try my luck; she seems in a propitious mood."