The change to Sandbourne did Katherine good; she grew calmer, more resigned, though still profoundly sad. The sense of having been brought in touch with one of the most cruel problems of society affected her deeply, and the contrast between the present and past of a year ago, when she had the boys with her, forced her to review her mental conditions since the great change in her fortunes wrought by her own act.

She had ample time for thought. Miss Payne was suffering from touches of rheumatism, which made long walks impossible; so Katherine wandered about alone.

The weather was bright, but, although it was the beginning of May, not warm enough to sit amongst the rocks at the point. Katherine, however, often walked to and fro recalling De Burgh's looks and tones the day he had opened his heart to her there. He was not a bad fellow—no, far from it; indeed, she knew that, if her heart had not been filled with Errington, she could have loved De Burgh. How was it that a man of feeling, of so-called honor, with a certain degree of discrimination between right and wrong, could have broken the moral law and been so callous as he had shown himself?

There was no use in thinking about it; it was beyond her comprehension. All she hoped was that time might efface the cruel lines which sorrow and remorse had cut deep into Rachel's heart.

With Miss Payne, Katherine was cheerful and companionable. They spoke much of Bertie. His decision to take orders would have given his sister unqualified satisfaction had he also sought preferment in England.

"A clergyman's position is excellent," she said, confidentially, as they sat together in the drawing-room window one blustery afternoon, when Katherine was not tempted to go out. "Bertie is just the stuff to make a popular preacher of, and so long as he is properly ordained I don't care how he preaches, but I don't like him to be classed with ranting, roaring vagabonds! Then, you see, there are no men who have such opportunities as clergymen of picking up well-dowered wives. I believe women are ready to propose themselves rather than not catch what some of them are pleased to term "a priest." It's a weakness I never could understand. What induces him to run off among the heathen?—can't he find heathen enough at home? If he gets into these outlandish places, I shall never see him again, and, between you and me, he is the only creature I care for. He thinks he is inspired by the love of God, but I know he is driven by the love of you."

"Of me, Miss Payne?" exclaimed Katherine, startled and greatly pained.

"Yes, you; and I wish you could see your way to marry him. It would be no great match for either of you, but he would be another and a happier man; and, as for you, your rejection of Lord de Burgh (I suppose you did refuse him) shows you do not care for riches."

"But, Miss Payne, I have no right to think your brother ever wished to marry me."

"Then you must be very dull. I wonder he has not written before. Oh, here is the postman!"

Katherine stepped through the window and took the letters from him.

"Only one for you and two for me," she said, returning. "One, I see, is from Ada." Opening it, she read as follows:

"Dearest Katherine,

"I write in great anxiety and surprise, as I see among the fashionable intelligence of the Morning Post that Lord de Burgh is on the point of leaving England for a tour in the Ural Mountains (of all places!) and will probably be absent for several months. Can this be true? and, if so, what is the reason of it? Is it possible that you have been so cruel, so insane, so wicked as to fly in the face of providence and refuse him? You should remember your own poverty-stricken existence, and think of the boys. Marriage with a man of De Burgh's rank and fortune would be the making of them. I have hidden away the paper, for, if the colonel saw it, it would drive him frantic. Do write and let me mediate between you and De Burgh, if you are so mad as to have quarrelled with him. I am feeling quite ill with all this excitement and worry. I don't think many women have been so sorely tried as myself. Ever yours,
"Ada Ormonde."

Having glanced through this composition, she handed it with a smile to Miss Payne, and opened the other letter, which was from Rachel. This was very short and very mysterious.

"I have been introduced to your relative, Mr. George Liddell," she wrote, "by his daughter. We have had a conversation respecting you and other matters. I cannot go into this now—I only write to say that Mr. Liddell is going down to see you to-morrow or next day, and I earnestly trust you may be reconciled. I am always your devoted Rachel."

"This is very extraordinary," cried Katherine, when she had read it aloud. "What can she mean by sending him down here! I rather dread seeing him."

"Nonsense," returned Miss Payne, sternly. "If that dressmaking friend of yours brings about a reconciliation between you and your very wrong-headed cousin, she will do a good deed. I anticipate some important results from this interview—you must see Mr. Liddell alone."

"I suppose so. I am sure I hope he will not snap my head off."

"You are not the sort of girl to allow people to snap your head off. But I am immensely puzzled to imagine what Miss Trant can have said or done to send this bush-ranger down here. How did Mr. Liddell come to know her?"

"I can only suppose that his little girl, to whom I believe he is devoted, brought him to Rachel's to get a dress tried on or to choose one."

"It is very odd," observed Miss Payne, thoughtfully. "My letter," she went on, after a moment's pause, "is from my new tenant; he wants some additional furniture, which is just nonsense. He has as much as is good for him; I'll write and say I shall be in town on Monday, and call at Wilton Street to discuss matters."

"Are you going to town on Monday?"

"Yes, I made up my mind when I read this," tapping the letter.

"I suppose you don't object to be left alone? And there is the chance of Mrs. Needham coming down; probably she will stay over Monday."

"I fear that is not very likely."

No more was said on the subject then, but Katherine could not get her mind free from the idea of George Liddell's anticipated visit. She was quite willing to make friends with him, though his ungenerous and unreasonable conduct towards herself had impressed her most unfavorably.

The day passed over, however, without any visitor, nor was it until the following afternoon that Katherine was startled, in spite of her preparation, by the announcement that a gentleman wished to see Miss Liddell.

"I'll go," exclaimed Miss Payne, gathering up her knitting and a book, and she vanished swiftly in spite of rheumatic difficulties.

In another moment George Liddell stood before his dispossessed kinswoman, a tall, gaunt figure with grizzled hair and sunken eyes. He took the hand she offered in silence, and then exclaimed, abruptly,

"You knew I was coming?"

"Yes, Rachel Trant told me. Will you not sit down?"

He drew a chair beside her work-table, and looking at her for a minute exclaimed, in harsh tones which yet showed emotion,

"You are a good woman!"

"How have you found that out?" asked Katherine, smiling.

"I will answer by a long, cruel story!" he returned with a sigh; "a story I would tell to none but you." Again he paused, looking down as if collecting his thoughts, while the brown, bony, sinewy hand he laid on the table was tightly clenched. "You knew my father," he began, suddenly raising his dark suspicious eyes to her, "and therefore can understand what an exacting tyrant he could be to those who were in his power. As a mere child I feared him and shrank from him; my earliest recollection was of my mother's care in keeping me from him. He was not violent to her—I don't suppose he ever struck her, but he treated her with cold contempt, why, I never understood, except that she cost him money, and brought him none. I won't unman myself by describing what her life was, or how passionately I loved her; we clung to each other as desolate, persecuted creatures only do! He grudged us the food we ate, the clothes—rather the rags—we wore. One day playing in Regent's Park I fell into the canal, and was nearly drowned. A gentleman went in after me and saved me. He took me home, he gave me to my mother, he often met us after. He gave me treats and money,—I can't dwell on this time. He won my mother's love, chiefly through me. He was going away to the new world. He persuaded her to leave her wretched home, to take me,—we escaped. I shall never forget the joy of those few days! Then my father (as we might have known he would) put out his torturing hand and seized me. My mother had hoped that his miserly nature would have disposed him to let me go, if he could thereby escape the cost of my maintenance. But revenge was too sweet to be foregone. I was dragged away. He did not want her back. He hoped her lover would desert her after awhile, and so accomplish her punishment; but he was true! No, I can never forget my mother's agony when I was torn from her!" he rose and walked to the window, and returned. "The hideous picture had grown faint," he said, "but as I speak it grows clear and black! You can imagine my life after this! It was well calculated to turn a moody, passionate boy into a devil! I was nearly eleven when I lost my mother, and I never heard of her or from her after; yet I never doubted that she loved me and tried to communicate with me, but my father's infernal spite kept us apart. At sixteen I ran away. Your father was friendly to me and tried to persuade me against what he called rashness; but I always fancied he might have helped my mother, backed her up more, and I did not heed him. I went through a rough training, as you may suppose, and never saw my father's face again."

"I can imagine that he could be terrible," murmured Katherine. "I was dreadfully afraid of him, but I did not know he had been so cruel."

George Liddell did not seem to hear her, he was lost in thought.

"You wonder, I daresay, why I tell you this long story," he resumed; "you will see what it leads up to presently."

"I am greatly interested," returned Katherine.

"You will be more so! From what I told Newton, you know enough of my career in Australia, but you do not know that I married a sweet, delicate woman, who, after the birth of our little Marie, fell into bad health. If I could have taken her away for a long voyage, it might have saved her, but I was in full swing making my pile, and could not tear myself away; that must have been about the time my father died. Had I known I was his heir, I should have sent my wife home. But fool that I was! I was too wrapped up making money (for the tide had just turned, and I was floating to fortune) to see that she was slipping from me. I never dreamed my father would die intestate. I always thought he would take care of his precious gold. It was well for me he destroyed his will."

Katherine felt her cheeks glow; but she did not speak.

"Well, I felt furious to think you had been enjoying my money when I did not even know that my father was dead; but I have changed."

"Why?" asked Katherine, who could not imagine what was his motive for telling her his history.

"You shall hear. You know I placed my little Marie at school. The school-mistress employed a dressmaker to whom the child took a fancy; she insisted on taking me to see her, and to choose some fal-lals." He stopped again, his mouth twitched, his fingers played with his watch-chain. "When the young woman came into the room," he resumed, "I thought I should have dropped. She was the living image of my poor mother, only younger. I could not speak for a minute. At last, when the child had kissed her and chatted a bit, I managed to ask if I might come back and speak to her alone, as she was so like a lady I once knew, that I wanted to put a few questions to her. She seemed a little disturbed; but told me I might come in the evening. I went. I asked her about her parentage; she knew very little, save that she had been born in South America. She offered, however, to show me her mother's picture, and, when she brought it, I not only saw it was my mother's likeness, but a picture I knew well. Her initials were on the case, R. L. Then I told her everything. I proved to her that I was her half-brother. How bitterly she cried when I described a little brooch with my hair in it, which Rachel still keeps. She has seen our mother kiss it and weep over it. My heart went out to her; she is second now only to my child. Then, Katherine, she told me her own sad story, and the part you played in it. How you saved her, and gave her hope and strength. Give me your hand! I'll never forget this service. It binds me more, a hundredfold more, than if you had done it for myself. But neither entreaties nor reproaches could induce her to tell me the name of the villain who—has she told you?" he interrupted himself to ask sternly.

"She never named his name to me," cried Katherine. "It is cruel to ask her. And of what possible advantage would the knowledge be? Any inquiry, any disturbance, would only punish her."

Liddell started up, and walked to and fro hastily. "That's true," he exclaimed; "but I wish I had my hand on his throat."

"That is natural; but you must think of Rachel, she has suffered so much."

"She has!" said George Liddell, throwing himself into his chair again. "But you don't know the sort of pain and sweetness it is to talk of my poor mother to her daughter! It makes a different and a better man of me. Rachel is a strong woman," he added, after a moment's thought; "she wishes our relationship to be kept secret. It is no credit to anyone, she says, and might be injurious to little Marie; we can be friends, and she need never want a few hundreds to help on her business. It seems that to please his people her father, on returning to England, only used his second name, which I never knew. It is a sorrowful tale for you to listen to—you are white and trembling, my girl," he added, with sudden familiarity,—"but I haven't done yet; you have laid me under obligations I can never repay. I could not offer a woman like you money; but I will pay you in kind. You have saved my dear sister, I will provide for the nephews that are dear to you. I have already seen Newton and my own solicitor, and laid my propositions before them. I don't pretend to munificence for them, besides, I shall not forget either you or them in my will, but they shall have means for a right good education and a good start in life. Now I want you to forgive my brutality when we first met, and, more, I want you to be my daughter's friend." He grasped her hand.

Katherine's eyes had already brimmed over.

"Forgive you!" she repeated. "I am quite ready to forgive. I was vexed, of course, that you should be unreasonably prejudiced against me; but I am deeply grateful for your generosity to the boys. If you knew the joy, the relief you have given me, it would, I am sure, gladden you. But let us try to make Rachel happy too. I wish——"

"She is happiest in her own way. Work is the only cure for ills like hers," interrupted Liddell. "Time will do wonders, and her wish to keep our relationship secret is wise." There was a pause; then Liddell, looking steadily at Katherine, exclaimed, "You are a real true, good-hearted woman; the world would be a better place if there were a few more like you in it." He then passed on to his plans for the future; his projects for his daughter's education, opening his mind with a degree of confidence which amazed Katherine, considering that two days before he was an enemy.

Presently he ceased to speak, and, after a moment's thought, stood up.

"Now I have said my say, and I must go," he exclaimed. "I only came to explain myself to you, for the less of such a story committed to paper the better. I am due in town to-morrow morning; write to Rachel, and come and see her as soon as you can. I wish," he added, with a searching glance, "that I had a woman like you to regulate matters and take care of my little Marie; then I could keep her with me."

"She is far better at school," returned Katherine, a little startled by this suggestive speech. "But will you not have some luncheon before you go?"

"No, thank you. I had some before coming on here. I need very little food, and scarcely anything gives me pleasure; but I like you, my cousin, and I want your friendship for the child."

"She shall have it, I promise."

After a few more words, George Liddell bid her good-bye. She stood a few minutes in deep thought before going to tell her good news to Miss Payne, reflecting that she must not betray the real motive of his change towards herself; the less she said the better. While she thought, Miss Payne came in looking unusually eager.

"Wouldn't he stay and have a bit to eat?" she exclaimed. "I saw him going out of the gate from my room."

"No, he is in a hurry to get back to town. Ah! my dear Miss Payne, he came down to make his peace with me, and he is going to provide for the boys."

"Why, what has happened to him? I can hardly believe my ears."

"I am sure I could hardly believe mine. I suppose as he grew accustomed to feel that everything was in his hands, and that I had given him no trouble, he saw that he had been unnecessarily severe. Then his little girl took him to Rachel Trant's, and they evidently spoke of me; probably she gave a highly colored description of my goodness, and, being an impulsive man, he said he would come and see me, whereupon she wrote to warn me."

"That's all possible; but somehow I feel there is more in it than I quite understand."

"I am sure I do not care to understand the wherefore, if only my cousin carries out his good intentions as regards Cis and Charlie."

"Just so; that is the main point. If he does, what a burden will be lifted off your shoulders!"

"And what a change in the boys' fortunes!" returned Katherine; adding, after a short pause, "I think I will go to town with you on Monday and pay them a visit, while you arrange your affairs with your tenant. Mrs. Needham will put me up for a night or two."

In truth, Katherine longed to see and talk with Rachel, to discuss the curious turn in her changeful fortunes, and build up pleasant palaces in the airy realms of the future.

The following day brought her a letter from De Burgh. It was dated from Paris, and told her of his intention to be absent from England for some time; he pleaded earnestly for pardon with a certain rough eloquence, and repeated the arguments he had previously urged, evidently thinking that his punishment was greatly disproportionate to his offence.

Katherine was much moved by this epistle; she could not help being sorry for him, though she hoped not to meet him again. The association of ideas was too painful; she was ashamed too to remember how near she had come to marrying him, in a sort of despair of the future. She answered this letter at once, frankly and kindly, setting forth the unalterable nature of her decision, and begging him not to put her to unnecessary pain by trying to renew their acquaintance at any future time.