The beginning of a new life is rarely agreeable, and when the newness consists of poverty in place of riches, of service instead of complete freedom, occupations not particularly congenial instead of the exercise of unfettered choice, in such matters—why, the contrast is rather trying.

A fortnight after the interview just described, Katherine was thoroughly settled with Mrs. Needham.

Although she justly considered herself most fortunate in finding a home so easily, with so pleasant and kindly a patroness, she would have been more or less than human had she not felt the change which had befallen her. Mrs. Ormonde's conduct, too, had wounded her, more than it ought, perhaps, for she always knew her sister-in-law to be shallow and selfish, but not to the degree which she had lately betrayed.

Her constant prayer was that she should be spared the torture of having to give up her dear boys to such a mother and such a step-father. She thought she saw little, loving, delicate Charlie shrinking into himself, and withering under the contemptuous indifference neglect of the Castleford household; and Cis—bolder and stronger—hardening into defiance or deceit under the same influence.

By the sort of agreement arrived at between Mr. Newton and Mrs. Ormonde, it was decided that so long as Katherine provided for the maintenance of her nephews, their mother was only entitled to have them with her during the Christmas holidays; and Colonel Ormonde was with some difficulty persuaded to allow the munificent sum of thirty pounds a year toward the education of his step-sons.

This definite settlement was a great relief to Katherine's heart. How earnestly she resolved to keep herself on her infinitesimal stipend, and save every other penny for her boys! Of the trouble before her, in removing them from Sandbourne to some inferior, because cheaper, school, she would not think. Sufficient to the day was the evil thereof.

She therefore applied herself diligently to her duties. These were varied, though somewhat mechanical.

Mrs. Needham's particular den was a very comfortable, well-furnished room at the back of the house, crowded with books and newspapers, and prospectuses, magazines, and all possible impedimenta of journalism, on the outer edge of which women were beginning with faltering footsteps tentatively to tread. Mrs. Needham not only wrote "provincial letters" (with a difference!), but contributed social and statistical papers to several of the leading periodicals; and one of Katherine's duties was to write out her rough notes, and make extracts from the books, Blue and others, the reports and papers which Mrs. Needham had marked. Then there were lots of letters to be answered and MSS. to be corrected.

Besides these, Mrs. Needham asked Katherine as a favor to help her in her house-keeping, as it was a thing she hated; "and whatever you do," was her concluding instructions, "do not see too much of cook's doings. She is a clever woman, and after all that can be said about the feast of reason, the success of my little dinners depends on her. I don't think she takes things, but she is a little reckless, and I never could keep accounts."

Katherine therefore found her time fully filled. This, however, kept her from thinking too much, and her kind chief was pleased with all she did. Her mind was tolerable at rest about the boys, her friends stuck gallantly to her through the shipwreck of her fortune, and yet her heart was heavy. She could not look forward with hope, or back without pain. She dared not even let herself think freely, for she well knew the cause of her depression, and had vowed to herself to master it, to hide it away, and never allow her mental vision to dwell upon it. Work, and interest—enforced, almost feverish interest—in outside matters, were the only weapons with which she could fight the gnawing, aching pain of ceaseless regret that wore her heart. How insignificant is the loss of fortune, and all that fortune brings, compared to the opening of an impassable gulf between one's self and what has grown dearer than self, by that magic, inexplicable force of attraction which can rarely be resisted or explained!

Life with Mrs. Needham was very active, and although Katherine was necessarily left a good deal at home, she saw quite enough of society in the evening to satisfy her. The all-accomplished Angela Bradley showed a decided inclination to fraternize with Mrs. Needham's attractive secretary, but for some occult reason Katherine did not respond. She fancied that Miss Bradley was disposed to look down with too palpably condescending indulgence from the heights of her own calm perfections on those storms in a teacup amid which Mrs. Needham agitated, with such sincere belief in her own powers to raise or to allay them. Yet Miss Bradley was a really high-minded woman, only a little too well aware of her own superiority. She was always a favored guest at the "Shrubberies," as Mrs. Needham's house was called, and of course an attraction to Errington, who was also a frequent visitor. The evenings, when some of the habitues dropped in on their way to parties, or returning from the theatre (Mrs. Needham never wanted to go to bed!), were bright and amusing. Moreover, Katherine had complete liberty of movement. If Mrs. Needham were going out without her secretary, Katherine was quite free to spend the time with Miss Payne, or with Rachel Trant, whom she found more interesting. At the house of the former she generally found Bertie ready to escort her home, always kindly and deeply concerned about her, but more than ever determined to convert her from her uncertain faith and worldly tendencies, to Evangelicalism and contempt for the joys of this life.

Already the days of her heirship seemed to have been wafted away far back, and the routine of the present was becoming familiar. There was nothing oppressive in it. Yet she could not look forward. Hope had long been a stranger to her. Never, since her mother's death, since she had fully realized the bearings of her own reprehensible act, had she known the joy of a light heart. Some such ideas were flitting through her mind as she was diligently copying Mrs. Needham's lucubrations one afternoon, when the parlor maid opened the door and said, as she handed her a card, "The lady is in the drawing-room, ma'am."

The lady was Mrs. Ormonde.

"Is Mrs. Needham at home?"

"No, ma'am."

It was rather a trial, this, meeting with Ada, but Katherine could not shirk it. She did not want to have any quarrel with the boys' mother, so she ascended to the drawing-room.

There stood the pretty, smartly dressed little woman, all airy elegance, but the usually smiling lips were compressed, and the smooth white brow was wrinkled with a frown. She was examining a book of photographs—most of them signed by the donors.

"Oh, Katherine! how do you do?" she said, sharply, and not in the least abashed by any memory of their last meeting. "I am up in town for a few days, and I couldn't leave without seeing you. You see I have too much feeling to turn my back on an old friend, however injured I may be by circumstances over which you had no control. You are not looking well, Katie; you are so white, and your eyes don't seem to be half open."

"I am quite well, I assure you," said Katherine, composedly, and avoiding a half-offered kiss by drawing a chair forward for her visitor.

"I wish I could say as much," returned Mrs. Ormonde, with a deep sigh, throwing herself into it. "I am perfectly wretched; Ormonde is quite intolerable at times since everything has collapsed. I am sure I often wish you had never done anything for the boys or me, and then we should never have fancied ourselves rich. Of course I don't blame you; you meant well, but it is all very unfortunate."

"It is indeed; but is it possible that Colonel Ormonde is so unmanly as to—"

"Unmanly?" interrupted his wife. "Manly, you mean. Of course he revenges himself on me. Not always. He is all right sometimes; but if anything goes wrong, then I suffer. Fortunately I was prudent, and made little savings, with which I am—but"—interrupting herself—"that is not worth speaking about."

"I am sorry you are unhappy, Ada," said Katherine, with her ready sympathy.

"Oh, don't think I allow myself to be trodden on," cried Mrs. Ormonde, her eyes suddenly lighting up. "It was a hard fight at first, but I saw it was a struggle for life; and when we knew the worst, and Ormonde raved and roared, I said I should leave him and take baby (I could, you know, till he was seven years old), and that the servants would swear I was in fear of my life; and I should have done it, and carried my case, too! I'm not sure it would not have been better for me. But he gave in, and asked me to stay. I felt pretty safe then. Now, when he is disagreeable, I burst into tears at dinner, and upset my glass of claret on the table-cloth, and totter out of the room weak and tremulous. I can see the butler and James ready to tear him to pieces. When he is good-humored, so am I; and when he tries to bully, why, what with trembling so much that I break something he likes, and fits of hysterics, and being awfully frightened before strangers, and making things go wrong when he wishes to create a great effect on some one, I think he begins to see it is better not to quarrel with me. Still, it is awfully miserable, compared with what it used to be when I really thought he loved me. How pleasant we all were together at Castleford before this horrid man turned up! Why didn't that awkward bush-ranger take better aim?"

"I dare say George Liddell is not quite of your opinion," said Katherine, smiling at her sister-in-law's candor.

"He was quite rich before," continued Mrs. Ormonde, querulously. "Why couldn't he be satisfied to stay out there and spend his own money? I hate selfishness and greed!"

"They are odious in every one," said Katherine, gravely.

"Now that I feel satisfied you are well and happy," resumed Mrs. Ormonde, who had never put a single question respecting herself to Katherine, "there are one or two things I wanted to ask you. Where are the boys?"

"They are still at Sandbourne; but they leave, I am sorry to say, at Easter."

"Oh, they do! It is an awfully expensive school. Are you quite sure, Katherine, they will not send in the bill to me?"

"Quite sure, Ada, for I have paid in advance."

"That was really very thoughtful, dear. Then—excuse my asking; I would not interfere with you for the world—but what are you going to do with them in the Easter holidays? I dare not have them at Castleford. I should lose all the ground I have gained if such a thing was even hinted to the Colonel."

"Why apologize for inquiring about your own children? Do not be alarmed, they shall not go. I am just now arranging for them to go to a school at Wandsworth, and for the Easter holidays Miss Payne has most kindly invited them."

"Really! How very nice! I will send her a hamper from Castleford. I can manage that much. This is rather a nice little place," continued Mrs. Ormonde, evidently much relieved and looking round. "What lots of pretty things! Is Mrs. Needham nice? She seemed rather a flashy woman. You must feel it an awful change from being an heiress, and so much made of, to being a sort of upper servant! Do you dine with Mrs. Needham?"

"Yes, I really do, and go out to evening parties with her."

"No, really?"

"It is a fact. She is a kind, delightful woman to live with. I am most fortunate."

"Fortunate? You cannot say that, Katie! You are the most unfortunate girl in the world. You know how penniless women are looked upon in society. I remember when Ormonde thought himself such a weak idiot for being attracted to me, all because I had no money. It makes such a difference! Why, there is Lord De Burgh; I met him yesterday, and asked him to have a cup of tea with me, and he never once mentioned your name."

"Why should he? I never knew Lord De Burgh," said Katherine.

"Yes, you did, dear! Why, you cannot know what is going on if you have not heard that old De Burgh died nearly a fortnight ago in Paris, and our friend has come in for everything. He had just returned from the funeral, so he said, and is looking darker and glummer than ever. Well, you know how he used to run after you. I assure you he never made a single inquiry about you. Heartless, wasn't it? I said something about that horrid man coming back, and—would you believe it?—he laughed in that odious, cynical way he has, and called me a little tigress. The only sympathetic word he spoke was to call it an infernal business. He doesn't care what he says, you know. Then he asked if Ormonde was tearing his hair about it. What a pity you did not encourage him, Katie, and marry him! Once you were his wife he could not have thrown you off. Now I don't suppose you'll ever see him again. I rather think Mrs. Needham does not know many of his set."

"She knows an extraordinary number of people—all sorts and conditions of men; Mr. Errington often dines here."

"Does he? But then he is a sort of literary hack now. Just think what a change both for you and him!"

"It is very extraordinary; but he keeps his position better than I do."

"Of course. Men are always better off. Now, dear, I must go. I am quite glad to have seen you, and sorry to think that my husband is absurdly prejudiced against you from the way you spoke to him last time. It was by no means prudent."

"Well, Ada, should Colonel Ormonde so far overcome his objection to me as to seek me again, I think it very likely I may say more imprudent things than I did last time. Pray, what do I owe him that I should measure my words?"

"Really, Katherine, when you hold your head up in that way I feel half afraid of you. There is no use trying to hold your own with the world when your pocket is empty. You see nobody troubles about you now, whereas—"

"Miss Bradley!" announced the servant; and Angela entered, in an exquisite walking dress of dark blue velvet; bonnet and feathers, gloves, parasol, all to match. Mrs. Ormonde gazed in delighted admiration at this splendid apparition.

"My dear Miss Liddell!" she exclaimed, shaking hands cordially. "I have rushed over to tell you that we have secured a box for Patti's benefit on Thursday, and I want you to join us. I know Mrs. Needham has a stall, but she will sup with us after. Mr. Errington and one or two musical critics are coming to dine with me at half past six, and we can go together."

"You are very good," said Katherine, coloring. She did not particularly care to go with Miss Bradley, and she was amused at Mrs. Ormonde's expression of astonishment. "Of course I shall be most happy."

"Now I must not stay; I have heaps to do. Will you be so kind as to give me the address of the modiste you mentioned the other day who made that pretty gray dress of yours? Madame Maradan is so full she cannot do a couple of morning dresses for me, so I want to try your woman."

"I shall be so glad if you will," cried Katherine. "I will bring you one of her cards. Let me introduce my sister-in-law to you. Mrs. Ormonde, Miss Bradley." She left the room, and Miss Bradley drew a chair beside her. "I think I had the pleasure of seeing you at Lady Carton's garden party last July?" she said, courteously.

"Oh, dear me, yes! I thought I knew your face. Lady Carton introduced you to me. Lady Carton is a cousin of Colonel Ormonde's."

"Oh, indeed! Miss Liddell was not there?"

"No; she chose to bury herself by the sea-side for the whole season."

Here Katherine returned with the card.

"I am so glad you are going to give my friend Rachel Trant a trial. I am sure you will like her. She has excellent taste."

"Now I must not wait any longer. So good-by. Shall you be at Madame Caravicelli's this evening?"

"I am not sure. I don't feel much disposed to go."

"Good-by for the present, then. Good-morning," to Mrs. Ormonde, and Miss Bradley swept out of the room.

"Well, Katherine!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, when her sister-in-law returned, "you seem to have fallen on your feet here. Pray who is that fine, elegant girl who seems so fond of you?"

"She is the daughter of a wealthy publisher, and has been very kind to me."

"Ah, yes! I remember now, Lady Carton said she would have a large fortune; and so she is your intimate friend?"

"Well, a very kind friend."

"Now I must bid you good-by. I am sure I am very glad you are so comfortable. I am going back to Castleford to-morrow, or I should call again. You are going to be Lucky Katherine, after all; I am sure you are;" and with many sweet words she disappeared.

"Lucky," repeated Katherine, as she returned to her task, "mine has been strange luck."

Despite Mrs. Ormonde's assurances that De Burgh had quite forgotten her, the news that he was once more in town disturbed Katherine. Unless some new fancy had driven her out of his head, she felt sure that his first step in the new and independent existence on which he had entered would be to seek her out and renew the offer he had twice made before. Money or no money, position, circumstances, all were but a feather-weight compared to the imperative necessity of having his own way.

It would be very painful to be obliged to refuse him again, for, in spite of her grave disapprobation of him in many ways, she liked him, and had a certain degree of confidence in him. There were the possibilities of a good character even in his faults, and it grieved her to be obliged to pain him.

"After all, I may be troubling myself about a vain image; it is more than a month since I saw him. He is now a wealthy peer, and it is impossible to say how circumstances may have changed him."

When Mrs. Needham had dressed for the dinner which was to precede Madam Caravicelli's reception, Katherine put on her bonnet and cloak and set off to spend a couple of hours with Rachel Trant, not only to avoid a lonely evening, but to change the current of her thoughts—loneliness and thought being her greatest enemies at present.

She had grown quite accustomed to make her way by omnibus, and as the days grew longer and the weather finer, she hoped to be able to walk across Campden Hill, not only shortening the distance but saving the fare. A visit to Rachel amused Katherine and drew her out of herself more than anything; the details of the business and management of property which she felt was her own had a large amount of interest—real, living interest. The state of the books, the increase of custom, the addition to the small capital which Rachel was gradually accumulating—all these were subjects not easily exhausted. Both partners agreed that their great object, now that the undertaking was beginning to maintain itself, was to lay by all they could, for of course bad debts and bad times would come.

"It is a great satisfaction to think that though people may do without books or pictures or music, they must wear clothes; and if you fit well, and are punctual, you are certain to have customers. Of course if you give credit you must charge high; people are beginning to see that now. You cannot get ready money in the dressmaking trade except for those costumes you give for a certain fixed price; but I stand out for quarterly accounts."

"And do you find no difficulty in getting them paid?"

"Not much; you see, I deduct five per cent. for punctual payment. Every one tries to save that five per cent. But talking of these things has put a curious incident out of my head, which I was longing to tell you. You remember among my first customers were Mrs. Fairchild and her daughters. They keep a very high class ladies' school in Inverness Terrace, and have been excellent customers. Yesterday Miss Fairchild called and said that she wanted an entire outfit for a little girl of ten or eleven, who was to be with them. They did not wish for anything fine or showy; at the same time, cost was no object. I was to furnish everything, to save time. This morning they brought the child to be fitted; she is very tall and thin, but lithe and supple, with dark hair, and large, bright, dark-brown eyes. She will be very handsome. I could not quite make her out; she is not an ordinary gentlewoman, nor is she the very least vulgar or common. She gives me more the idea of a wild thing not quite tamed. When all was settled I was told to address the account to Mr. George Liddell, Grosvenor Hotel."

"Why, it must be my cousin George!" cried Katherine. "How strange that in this huge town they should fix on you amongst the thousands of dressmakers! You must make my little cousin look very smart, Rachel."

"She is not little. She is wonderfully mature for ten years old, something like a panther."

"I should like to see her. I believe she is a great idol with her father. I wish," added Katherine, after a pause, "he were not so unreasonably prejudiced against me. You may think me weak, Rachel, but I have a sort of yearning for family ties."

"Why should I think you weak? It is a natural and I suppose a healthy feeling. I don't understand it myself because I never had any. Isolation is my second nature. The only human being that ever treated me with tenderness and loyal friendship is yourself, and what you have been to me, what I feel toward you, none can know, for I can never tell."

"Dear Rachel! How glad I am to have been of use to you! And you amply repay me, you are looking so much better. Tell me, are you not feeling content and happy?"

Rachel smiled, a smile somewhat grim in spite of the soft lips it parted. "I am resigned, and I have found an object to live for, and you know what an improvement that is compared to the condition you found me in. But I don't think I am really any more in love with life now than I was then. However, I am more mistress of myself." She paused, and her face grew very grave as she leaned back in her chair, her arm and small hand, closely shut, resting on the table beside her.

"All the minute details, the thought and anxiety, my business, or rather our business, requires an enormous help—it is such a boon to be too weary at night-time to think! But no amount of work, of care, can quite shut out the light of other days. It is no doubt wrong, immoral, unworthy of a reformed outcast, but if my real heart's desire could be fulfilled, I would live over again those few months of exquisite happiness, and die before waking to the terrible reality of my insignificance in the sight of him who was more than life to me—die while I was still something to be missed, to be regretted. He would have tired of me had I been his wife, and that would have been as terrible as my present lot—even more, for I must have seen his weariness day by day, and no amount of social esteem would have consoled me. As it is, my real self seems to have died, and this creature"—striking her breast—"was a cunningly contrived machine, that can work, and understand, but, save for one friend, cannot feel. I do not even look back to him with any regretful tenderness. I do not love him—that is dead. I do not hate him—I have no right. He did not deceive me; I voluntarily overstepped the line which separates the reputable and disreputable; as long as I was loved and cherished I never felt as if I had done wrong. I never felt humiliation when I was with him. When he grew tired of me he could not help it; he never did try to resist any whim or passion. But better, stronger men cannot hold the wavering will-o'-the-wisp they call 'love'; and once it flickers out, it cannot be relighted. No, I have no one to blame; I can only resign myself to the bitterest, cruelest fate that can befall a woman—to be loved and eagerly sought, won, and adored for a brief hour, then thrown carelessly aside—a mere plaything, unworthy of serious thought. Ah, I have forgotten my resolution not to talk of myself to you. It is a weakness; but your kind eyes melt my heart. Now I will close it up—I will think only of the task I have set myself, to make a little fortune for you, a reputation for my own establishment—not a very grand ambition, but it does to keep the machine going; and I am growing stronger every day, with a strange force that surprises myself. I fear nothing and no one. I think my affection for you, dear, is the only thing which keeps me human. Now tell me, are you still comfortable with Mrs. Needham?"

The tears stood in Katherine's eyes as she listened to this stern wail of a bruised spirit, but with instinctive wisdom she refrained from uttering fruitless expressions of sympathy. She would not encourage Rachel to dwell on the hateful subject; she only replied by pressing her friend's hand in silence, and she began to speak of Mrs. Ormonde's visit, and succeeded in making Rachel laugh at the little woman's description of the means she adopted of reducing Colonel Ormonde to reason.

"Real generosity and unselfishness is very rare," said Rachel. "The meanness and narrowness of men are amazing—and of women too; but somehow one expects more from the strength of a man."

"When men are good they are very good," said Kate, reflectively. "But the only two I have seen much of are not pleasant specimens—my uncle, John Liddell, and Colonel Ormonde. Then against them I must balance Bertie Payne, who is good enough for two."

"He is indeed! I owe him a debt I can never repay, for he brought you to me. I wish you could reward him as he would wish."

"I am not sure that he has any wishes on the subject," said Katherine, her color rising. "He thinks I am too ungodly to be eligible for the helpmeet of a true believer. Ah, indeed I am not half good enough for such a man!"