The moral effect of feeling in touch with some loyal, tender, sympathizing fellow-creature is immense. It gives faith in one's self—a belief in the possibilities for good hidden in the future; above all, relief from that most paralyzing of mental conditions, a sense of isolation.

Katherine walked back alone in the dark. The sooner she accustomed herself to habits of independence the better; for the future she must learn to stand alone, to take care of herself, unassisted by maid or flunky. It made her a little nervous; for although in the old impecunious days she went on all necessary errands in the morning alone, she rarely left the house after sundown even with a companion. They were very monotonous days, those which seemed to have fled away so far into the soft misty gloom of the past. Yet how full of fragrance was their memory! The castle-building, the vague bright hopes, the joy of helping the dear mother, the utter absolute trust in her, the struggle with the necessities of life—all were more or less sweet; and now to what an end she had brought the simple drama of her youth! Had she resisted that strange prompting which kept her silent when Mr. Newton began to look for the will, how different everything might have been! Errington might be well off too, and she might never have seen him.

With the thought of him came the sudden overpowering wish to hear his voice—clear, deliberate, convincing—which sometimes seized her in spite of every effort to banish it from her mind, and of which she was utterly, profoundly ashamed, the recurrence of which was infinitely painful. She must fill her heart with other thoughts, other objects. "Life is serious enough (the life which lies before me especially) to crowd out these follies. Why do I increase its gloom with imaginary troubles?"

Miss Payne, returning from her dinner, found Katherine sitting up for her, apparently occupied with a book, and in the little confidential talk which ensued Katherine told her of Rachel Trant's intention of consulting Mr. Newton respecting her plans for increasing her business with a view to assisting her benefactress.

Miss Payne received this communication in silence; but after a moment's thought observed, in a grave, approving tone; "You have not been deceived in her, then. I really believe Rachel Trant is a young woman of principle and integrity."

"Yes, I have always thought so." Then, after a pause, she resumed: "I wonder what reply I shall have from Ada to-morrow—no, the day after to-morrow."

"Do not worry yourself about it. She will make herself disagreeable, of course; but it is just a trouble to be got through with. Go to bed, my dear; try to sleep and to forget. You are looking fagged and worn."

But Katherine could not help dwelling upon the picture her imagination presented of the morrow's breakfast-time at Castleford; of the dismay with which her letter would be read; of Ada's tears and Colonel Ormonde's rage; of the torrent of advice which would be poured upon her. Then what decision would Colonel Ormonde come to about the boys? He would banish them to some cheap out-of-the-way school. It was impossible to say what he would do.

Naturally she did not sleep well or continuously, disturbed as she was by such thoughts—such uneasy anticipations—and her eyes showed the results of a bad night when she met Miss Payne in the morning.

About eleven o'clock Katherine came quickly into Miss Payne's particular sitting-room, where she made up her accounts and studied her bank-book.

"What is it?" asked that lady, looking up, and perceiving that Katherine was agitated.

"A telegram from Ada. They will be here about five this afternoon."

"Well, never mind. There is nothing in that to scare you."

"I am not scared, but I wish that interview was over."

"Yes; I shall be glad when it is; though I shall not obtrude on his Royal Highness. (I suppose he is coming as well as she.) I shall be in the house, so you can send for me if you want me."

"Thank you, Miss Payne; you are very good to me. I feel that I ought not to stay here crowding up your house."

"Nonsense! I am not in such a hurry to find a new inmate. I shall not like any one as well as you. I wish I could give up and live in a neat little cottage, but I cannot. Indeed, if you think I may, I should like to mention this deplorable change in your fortunes to Mrs. Needham. She knows every one, and can bring all sorts of people together if she likes."

"By all means, Miss Payne. There is no reason why you should not."

And after a little more conversation Katherine went back to her occupation of arranging her belongings and wardrobe, that when the moment of parting came she might be quite ready to go.

To wait patiently for that which you know will be painful is torture of no mean order. It was somewhat curtailed for Katherine on that memorable day, for Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde arrived half an hour sooner than she expected.

They had driven direct from the station to Wilton Street, and Katherine saw at a glance that both were greatly disturbed.

"Katherine, what is the meaning of your dreadful letter?" cried Mrs. Ormonde, without any previous greeting, while the Colonel barked a gruff "How d'ye do?"

"My letter, Ada, I am sorry to say, meant what it said," returned Katherine, sadly. "Do sit down, and let us discuss what is best to be done."

"What can be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, bursting into tears.

"For God's sake, don't let us have tears and nonsense," said Colonel Ormonde, roughly. "Tell me, Katherine, is it possible Newton means to give in to this impostor? Why does he not demand proper proof, and throw the whole business into chancery?"

"I am sure Mr. Newton could not doubt George Liddell's story. He could not go back from his own involuntary recognition, nor could I pretend to doubt what I believe is true."

"Pooh! that is high-flown bosh. You need not say what you do or do not believe. All you have to do is to throw the onus of proof on this fellow."

"It is all too dreadful," said Mrs. Ormonde, in tearful tones. "To think that you will allow yourself to be robbed, and permit the dear boys to be reduced to beggary, for a mere crochet—it is too bad. I never will believe this horrid man is the person he represents himself to be; never."

"I wish you would go and speak to Mr. Newton. He would explain the folly of resisting."

"And how do you know that he is not bribed?" returned Mrs. Ormonde, with a little sob. "Every one knows what dreadful wretches lawyers are. And though I dare say you meant well, Katherine, but having induced us to believe you would provide for the boys, it is a little hard—indeed very hard—on Colonel Ormonde to have them thrown back on his hands, and it is really your duty to do something to relieve us."

"Back on my hands!" echoed the Colonel. "I'll not take them back. Why should I? I have been completely swindled in the whole business. I am the last man to support another fellow's brats. Why didn't that old lawyer of yours ascertain whether your uncle's son was dead or alive before he let you pounce upon the property and play Lady Bountiful with what did not belong to you?" And Colonel Ormonde paced the room in a fury, all chivalrous tradition melting away in the fierce heat of disappointed greed.

"You have no right to find fault with me," cried Katherine, stung to self-assertion. "I did well and generously by your children and yourself, Ada (I must say so, as you seem to forget it). There is more cause to sympathize with me in the reverse that has befallen me than to throw the blame of what is inevitable on one who is a greater sufferer than yourselves. Do you not know that the worst pang my bitterest enemy—had I one—could inflict is to feel I must give up the boys? Matters are still unsettled, but if my cousin can be induced to deal mercifully with me, and not absorb my little all to liquidate what is legally due to him, I will gladly keep Cis and Charlie, and give them what I have, rather than throw them on Colonel Ormonde's charity. I am deeply sorry for your disappointment, but I have done nothing to irritate Colonel Ormonde into forgetting what is due to a lady and his wife's benefactress." Katherine was thoroughly roused, and stood, head erect, with glowing eyes, and soft red lips curling with disdain.

"I always said she was violent; didn't' I, Duke?" sobbed Mrs. Ormonde. "Katherine, you do amaze me."

"There is no denying she is a plucky one," he returned, with a gruff laugh. "I too deny that you should consider it a misfortune for the boys to come under my care. I owe a duty to my own son, and am not going to play the generous step-father to his hurt. If you can't come to advantageous terms with this—this impostor, as I verily believe he is. I'll send the boys to the Bluecoat School or some such institution. They have turned out very good men before this."

"I am sure we could expect no more from Colonel Ormonde, and when you think that I shall be entirely dependent on him for"—sob—"my very gowns"—sob—"and—and little outings—and" a total break down.

"If I am penniless," said Katherine, controlling her inclination to scream aloud with agony, "I must accept your offer—any offer that will provide for my nephews. If not, I will devote myself and what I have to them. I really wish you would go and see Mr. Newton; he will make you understand matters better than I can; and as you have come in such a spirit, I should be glad if you would leave me. I cannot look on you as friends, considering how you have spoken."

"By George!" interrupted the Colonel, much astonished. "This is giving us the turn-out."

"What ingratitude!" cried his wife, with pious indignation, as she rose and tied on her veil.

Her further utterance was arrested, for the door was thrown open, and Francois announced, "Mr. Errington."

A great stillness fell upon them as Errington walked in, cool, collected, well dressed, as usual.

"Very glad to meet you here, Mrs. Ormonde," he said, when he had shaken hands with Katherine. "Miss Liddell has need of all her friends at such a crisis. How do, Colonel; you look the incarnation of healthy country life."

"Ah—ah; I'm very well, thank you," somewhat confusedly. "Just been trying to persuade Miss Liddell here to dispute this preposterous claim. I don't believe this man is the real thing."

"I am afraid he is," gravely; "I know him, for John Liddell was a friend of my father's in early life, and I feel satisfied this man is his son."

"You do. Well, I shall speak to my own lawyers and Newton about it: one can't give up everything at the first demand to stand and deliver."

"No; neither is it wise to throw good money after bad. We were just going to Mr. Newton's, so I'll say good-morning. Till to-morrow, Katherine. I'll report what Newton says."

"Good-morning, Mr. Errington," said Mrs. Ormonde, pulling herself together, and her veil down. "This is a terrible business! I feel it as acutely as if it were myself—I mean my own case. I am sure it is so good of you to come and see Katherine. I hope you will give us a few days at Castleford." So murmuring and with a painful smile, she hastened downstairs after her husband.

Then Errington closed the door and returned to where Katherine stood, white and trembling, in the middle of the room. "I am afraid your kinsfolk have been but Job's comforters," he said, looking earnestly into her eyes, his own so grave and compassionate that her heart grew calmer under their gaze. "You are greatly disturbed."

"They have been very cruel," she murmured. "Yet, not knowing all you do, they could not know how cruel. They are so angry because what I tried to do for the boys proved a failure. They little dream how guilty I feel for having created this confusion. If I am obliged to give up Cis and Charlie to—to Colonel Ormonde, their lot will be a miserable one!" She spoke brokenly, and her eyes brimmed over, the drops hanging on her long lashes.

"Sit down, Miss Liddell. I am deeply grieved to see you so depressed. I have ventured to call because I have a pin's point of hope for you, which I trust will excuse me for presenting myself, as I know you would rather not see me."

"To-day I am glad to see you. I should always be glad to see you but—but for my own conscience. Do not misunderstand me." With a sudden impulse she stretched out her fair soft hand to him. He took and held it, wondering to find that although so cold when first he touched it, it grew quickly warm in his grasp.

"Thank you," he said, gently, and still held her hand; "you give me infinite pleasure. Now"—releasing her—"for my excuse. Among my poor father's papers were a few letters of very old date from John Liddell, in which was occasional mention of his boy. It struck me these might be a modus operandi, and enable me approach a difficult subject. I contrived to meet your cousin at Mr. Newton's, and he permitted me to call. I gave him the letters, and we became—not friends—but friendly at least." Here his face brightened. "We began to talk of you, and I saw that he was bitter and vindictive against you to an extraordinary degree. He grew communicative, and I was able to represent to him the cruelty and unreasonableness of his conduct. At last—only to-day—he suddenly exclaimed, 'How much of my money has that nice young lady made away with?' I could not, of course, give him any particulars, but having learned from himself that he had amassed a good deal of money himself, and that with the addition of your fortune (I cannot help calling it yours) he would really be a man of wealth, I ventured to suggest that he should not demand the refunding of what you had used while in possession of the property, and showed him what a bad impression it would create in the minds of those among whom he evidently wishes to make a place for himself. He thought for a few moments, and then said he would consider the matter and consult his legal advisers before coming to a decision, adding that he did not understand how it was that they as well as myself were on your side. Then I left him, and I feel a strong impression that he will lay aside his worst intentions. I only trust he will spare whatever balance may stand to your credit with your banker."

"You have indeed done me a great service," cried Katherine, "If George Liddell does as you suggest I shall not be afraid to face the future. I shall surely be able to find some employment myself; then I need not importune Colonel Ormonde for my nephews."

"He will surely not leave them without means," cried Errington.

"I am not sure. They have no legal claim upon him, and he is very angry with me for causing such confusion, though—"

—"Though," interrupted Errington, "your only error was over-generosity."

"My only error, Mr. Errington!"—casting down her eyes and interlacing her fingers nervously. "If he only knew!"

"But he does not; he never shall!" exclaimed Errington, with animation, drawing unconsciously nearer. "That is a secret between you and me. None shall ever know our secret. All I ask is that you will forgive me for my unfortunate precipitancy in destroying the means of saving you, which you had placed in my hands—that you will forgive me, and let me be your friend. It is so painful to see you shrink from me as you do."

"Can you wonder, guilty as I feel myself to be? But if you so far overlook my evil deeds as to think me worth your friendship, I am glad and grateful to accept it. As to forgiveness, what have I to forgive?—your haste to save me from the possibility of discovery?"

"Then," said Errington, who had gazed for a moment in silence on his companion, whose face was slightly turned from him, every line of her pliant figure, from the graceful drooping head to the point of her shoe peeping from under her soft gray dress, expressed a sort of pathetic humility, "will you give me some idea of your plans, if you have any?"

"They are very vague. I have a small income apart from my uncle's property. I earnestly hope it will be enough to educate the boys. Then I must try to find employment—something that will enable me to provide for myself. Miss Payne is already looking out for me. That is all I can think of."

"It is a tremendous undertaking for a young girl like you," said Errington, looking down in deep thought. "But I think I understand that the cruelest trial of all would be to part with the boys. Still it is not wise to allow Mrs. Ormonde to thrust her sons on you, though I never can believe that Ormonde could act so dastardly a part as to refuse to do his part in maintaining them. There, again, the fear of what society would say will do more than a sense of justice or honor. I don't believe Ormonde will dare refuse to contribute his quota to the support of his wife's sons."

"Perhaps not. I wish I could do without it. But though Ada was harsh and unreasonable to-day, I am sorry for her. It must be dreadful to be tied to a man who looks on you as a burden."

"She will manage him. Their natures are admirably suited. Neither is too exalted. And Mrs. Ormonde has established herself very firmly as mistress of Castleford and the Colonel."

"I hope so." There was a short silence. Then Errington said, in a low tone, looking kindly into her face, "I trust you do not feel too despondent as regards the future."

"Far from it," returned Katherine, with a brief bright smile. "If only I can bring up my dear boys without too great privations, and fit them to work their way in life! From my short experience I should say that riches can buy little true happiness. Extreme poverty is terrible and degrading. Nor can money alone confer any true joys."

"So I have found," said Errington, thoughtfully; "and I can see that to you too the finery and distractions which wealth gathers together are mere dust heaps."

There was a pause, broken by the appearance of Miss Payne, who had only just discovered that Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde had left, and was not aware that Katherine had another visitor. After a little further and somewhat desultory conversation Errington took leave; nor was Katherine sorry, for the presence of Miss Payne seemed to have set them as far apart as ever, and how near they had drawn for a few moments!

"So that is Mr. Errington!" said Miss Payne, when the door had closed upon him. "He has never been here before?" The tone was interrogative.

"Mr. Errington has some acquaintance with George Liddell," returned Katherine, "and has very kindly done his best to dissuade him from claiming the money I have expended."

"How very good of him! I am sure I trust he will succeed!" exclaimed Miss Payne. "Now tell me how did Colonel Ormonde and your sister-in-law behave?"

Whereupon Katherine recounted all that had been said. Many and cynical were Miss Payne's remarks on the occasion, but Katherine scarcely heard her. That Errington should take so deep an interest in her, should persist in wishing to be her friend, was infinitely sweet and consoling. He was transparently true, and she did not doubt for a moment that he was sincere in all he said. Still she could not forget the sense of humiliation his presence always inflicted. It was always delightful to speak to him, and to hear him speak. What would she not give to be able to stand upright before him and dare to assert herself? How silent and dull and commonplace she must appear! not a bit natural or—She would think no more of him. Why was his face ever before her eyes? She would not be haunted in that way.

Here Bertie Payne's entrance created a diversion, which was most welcome. He was looking white and ill, as though suffering from some mental strain, Katherine observed, and then remembered that he had been very silent and grave of late; but he replied cheerfully to her inquiries, and exerted himself to do the agreeable during dinner, for which he staid.

Katherine almost hoped for a summons from Mr. Newton next day, also for some communication from Mrs. Ormonde, but none reached her. Still she possessed her soul in patience, fortified by the recollection of her interview with her new friend.

It was wet, and Katherine did not venture out, having a slight cold. She tried to read, to write, to play, but she could not give her attention to anything. It was an anxious crisis of her fate, and the sense of her isolation pressed upon her more heavily than ever. She really had no family ties. Friends were kind, but she had no claim on them or they on her. Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde had ceased to exist for her. How would her future life be colored? From consecutive thought she passed to vague reverie, from which she was glad to be roused by the return of Miss Payne, who never staid in for any weather.

"Where do you think I have been?" asked Miss Payne, untying her bonnet strings as she sat down.

"How can I guess? Your wanderings are various."

"I went to see Mrs. Needham, and I am very glad I did. I found her just bursting with curiosity. All sorts of reports have got about respecting your cousin and your loss of fortune, and she was enchanted to get the whole truth from me. Besides, she has just been applied to by the friends of a girl only sixteen to find a proper chaperon. She is full of enthusiasm about us both, and begged me, and you too, to dine with her the day after to-morrow to meet a Miss Bradley, the relative or friend of the sixteen-year-old. We are to look at each other, and are supposed to be in total ignorance of each other's identity. Mrs. Needham delights in small plots and transparent mysteries."

"And why am I to go?" asked Katherine, carelessly.

"To make a fourth, and talk to the hostess while I discourse with Miss Bradley."

"Very well; I will come."

"Any further news to-day?"

"Not a word; not a line."