Next morning dawned fair. Catherine was astir early, as was her custom; but, instead of writing letters, devoted all her time to meditating upon her resolution to plead with Uncle Ross. These meditations were interspersed with earnest prayers, and with a study of those parts of the Bible which she thought would best help her in her task.

'I must go to work very humbly,' she told herself, 'or else I may make some serious mistake, and maybe increase instead of lessening Uncle Jack's trouble. If I remember all the time that no action of mine can be the least use unless God helps me, then I am not likely to do harm.'

Her desire to make another effort on Uncle Jack's behalf was just as strong by morning light as it had been the preceding evening, but the difficulties in the way of success looked more colossal. What could she say, that would not be mere repetition of all she had already said? Nothing, except that now she could plead for the reconciliation to take place because the colonel's life was in danger. And if Uncle Ross did not care sufficiently for his brother to be touched by this news, influenced by the dread lest the quarrel should continue until death, there was no strong argument upon which the pleader could fall back as a last resource.

But surely, surely Uncle Ross would care! The lonely old man, surrounded by riches and comforts, must be longing all the while for the brotherly love he had cast away, and repeatedly refused to welcome back again!

Catherine's warm heart glowed with affection for all who were good to her, but more especially for those to whom she felt drawn by the tie of sympathy; and she could not believe that a brother could possibly continue to refuse to clasp a brother's hand, nor that any one could long withstand the gentle fascination of Uncle Jack's sincerity.

The more she prayed and meditated, the more hopeful did she become. She even found herself smiling over the contemplation of a dream-picture—the possible result of the efforts she was planning—of the brothers meeting once again as friends, not foes, and trying to outdo one another in their expressions of sorrow for the years of misunderstanding.

'Uncle Ross is generous at heart, I feel sure he is!' she thought. 'It is only, as Uncle Jack told me, that he has allowed his business career to spoil his outward character—he has grown too fond of money—hard, calculating, and cynical. But, in spite of his wealth, he is unhappy and lonely—he has come to regard his life as a failure. He will welcome the friendship and unmercenary devotion of the brother who has never ceased to sorrow for the loss of his regard!'

Before going downstairs to breakfast Catherine woke and dressed the children and listened to their prayers.

They clung round her and begged for a 'talk,' and this too she gave them—a quaint little morning homily—dealing with the probable events of the day, containing a promise to have a real, long game of play with them in the evening, to make up for leaving them with Agatha until dinner-time.

'You will be dear, good little people, will you not, so that I may go to see Uncle Ross quite happily, without worrying about having left you at home?'

Ted laughed wickedly, but was instantly rebuked by Toddie.

'Naughty boy not to pwomise at once! I'll be good, Carr dear, but I can't keep Ted fwom bein' bad.'

'Ted will not break his word to me, I am certain of that,' said Catherine, gravely regarding the mischievous-looking urchin.

'That's why didn't want to pwomise,' explained the rebel. 'Feels naughty this mornin'.'

'Come and kiss me.'

This invitation could not be resisted. In a second he had scrambled on to her knee, was clasping both his fat little arms round her neck, and showering kisses upon her cheeks and brow.

'Oh, Ted, you do not wish to vex our good God, and to worry your own Carr, do you?'

'Ni-ever!' cried Ted with emphasis. 'Only wanted to play pwanks, go an' tease Hawwiet in the kitchen, an' make Ag'tha let me do everything I like best!'

'You will do none of those things,' announced Catherine firmly.

Ted, scarcely believing she could be angry, yet awed by the decided tone, gazed up at her, asking,—

'Why won't I?'

'Because you love me, Ted. I cannot have that which I like best, if you are determined to try to please yourself this morning. I shall have to stay at home to take charge of you, if you mean to be naughty.'

'An' you weally want to go to see that howwid old man?'

'Oh, Ted,' put in Toddie the virtuous, 'you are a wicked, bad boy to-day! I wonder Carr has any patience wiv 'oo.'

'I shall be very much disappointed if I cannot go to Carm Hall.'

Ted meditated for a minute, then he laughed delightedly,—

'Then I'll save all the pwanks up!' he announced. 'I promise dweffully solemnly that I'll be won'erful good all the times you'se away, Carr lovey!'

When Catherine, having completed her conquest over Ted's mischievous longings, ran downstairs to breakfast, she found a letter awaiting her. It proved to be from her Melbourne cousin George, to whom she had written so long ago asking him for news of the last hours of poor Loring Carmichael.

Robert was shovelling away at the fire, and Harriet was laying the meal, so after a few words to them Catherine slipped away into the garden to read the long letter in peace.

She was not in the least cold, though the January air was fresh, as she paced round and round the narrow gravel walk which surrounded the small lawn.

Her cheeks were glowing with a healthy colour, and her brown hair, having just been rumpled by that naughty Ted, was blown in bewitching locks and curls about her brow.

There was a happy smile of pleased expectation on her lips as she began to read, but it faded away and was replaced by a look of anxiety and grief long before she had finished the letter.

After a few unimportant sentences George Carmichael wrote:—

'I know that I ought to have answered your letter long ago, and I should have done so, had I been certain how much I was justified in telling you about poor Loring. You say you are in a position to make use of any information I can send you, but my knowledge seems to me to be of a kind which, if shared with our uncles, would only increase their quarrel, not lessen it. Loring dictated two letters before he died, which I wrote and despatched as he desired—the one to Uncle Ross, the other to Uncle Jack. They were addressed to Carm Hall. As he was able to write through me, he did not give any verbal messages when he was dying. Have you never heard of these letters? It is not possible, is it, that Uncle Jack never received his? There! that question is as bad as a lie, so please consider it scratched out. I know, by something you said in your last letter to me, that Uncle J. can't have received it. These are the facts of the case. Loring was offered his choice between giving up his intention to be a soldier, or accepting an income of £2000 a year, with the prospect of inheriting almost all Uncle Ross's fortune. This sounds straight enough, but it was not straight, for he was bound over not to tell Uncle Jack of the bribe offered. Uncle J. thought he was choosing simply between the army and an office stool. Uncle Ross offered him money down, and a life of idleness, spent where he pleased; in fact, there was nothing he would not have offered in order to buy out his brother's influence. When Loring lay dying he considered himself freed from that promise of secrecy which he had made for his lifetime, and he wrote to Uncle Jack telling him how Ross had acted. He also explained that he had left home without any farewells, in order to leave them free to forget him, the cause of their quarrel, and because he was indignant at the secrecy, which seemed dishonourable, of the offer made him. "You," he wrote, "would have scorned to privately bribe me, had you possessed my other uncle's wealth. I chose to follow my own wish in the matter of choosing a profession, since I felt that, by attempting to bribe me, Uncle Ross had absolved me from all obligation due to his former care of me. Until he made that offer, which few young men would have refused, I was trying to subdue my longing for a soldier's life, that I might repay him for making me his heir. You never tried to influence me; you only told me true stories of a soldier's life. It was entirely owing to Uncle Ross's secret persuasion that I left home to enlist." There, my dear Catherine, as nearly as I can remember, those were the words poor Loring wrote to Uncle Jack by my hand in that letter which it is clear enough Uncle Jack has not received. My own opinion is, that it reached Carm Hall after the colonel's departure, and that Uncle Ross (knowing some of its contents through Loring's letter to him) purposely refrained from forwarding it. If my suspicion is correct, the news I send you will surely increase the family quarrel rather than lessen it; but I place it in your hands to be used or not used, as you judge best. My opinion is that a reconciliation will never take place, if it cannot come to pass without a confession by the squire. It is more often the person who has done the injury, not the person injured, who refuses to forgive. If you ever wish for it, Catherine, I can send you a copy of Loring's letter to the colonel, for I have at home the rough notes for it—the words that his failing breath dictated to me.'

'Catherine, dear!'

Uncle Jack had come to the open window of the dining-room, and was calling her in from the garden.

'Coming!'

There was no time to think over the letter she had been reading, and she must laugh and talk over the breakfast just as though no news had come to startle her.

Catherine made a brave effort to appear unconcerned, and, luckily, Agatha was in a cheerful, unobservant mood; and the colonel, though he noticed that his niece's merriment was rather strained, guessed that she was tired, or maybe disappointed at having received no communication from Brian. When prayers had been said, and Agatha carried back to the couch in her own little sitting-room and given charge over Ted and Toddie, who promised to be 'beautifully good all mornin',' Catherine was free to put one or two careful questions to her uncle. She went to him where he was sitting before his writing-table, and clasping his arm, knelt by his side, gazing affectionately into his face.

'Dear, I—have been thinking a great deal about poor Loring this morning.'

'Ah! my dear boy! He was the best of lads; so honourable and high-spirited!'

'Did he send you a message—or a letter—before he died, dear?'

'No, not a word. But you must not blame him for that, lassie. He may have had no time, have remained unconscious until the end; or I sometimes think he may have learned to regret his adoption of the profession, since for a gentleman a "private's" life is a hard one, and he may have felt anger against me for having caused him to become a soldier.'

'But you did not directly counsel him to enter the army, did you, uncle?'

'No, no; I never counselled him to refuse to obey the wishes of the uncle to whom he owed all. I only pleaded with Ross for him, and no doubt I talked to him a great deal about the service—I could not help that; and he used to question me so eagerly. Yet I have no doubt that I was to blame, as Ross says I was, for the lad's rebellion and decision.'

Catherine rose, and kissed the old man's forehead before leaving him.

'I do not believe that Loring ever regretted his decision or ceased to be grateful to you, dear uncle,' she said softly.

She thought over George's letter while she walked the four miles to Carm Hall; but her resolution had sprung into being directly she had heard the colonel's self-blaming answer to her questions. She was indignant now on his behalf. Had the squire indeed kept back the dying lad's letter to his best friend, the relative whom he had loved more than any other living creature? If so, then the time had come for her to make a bold attempt to force a reconciliation, unless she could persuade Uncle Ross to yield for reason's, for honour's, and for pity's sake. And Uncle Jack had said, 'I would gladly give the rest of my life, if possible, in exchange for the reinstating of the old regard we, Ross and I, had for one another. I want him just as badly as ever, lassie!'

Oh, supposing the wrong were proved to have been done—and of this Catherine could not have much doubt—if Uncle Ross would but ask for pardon, how gladly, generously, would not Uncle Jack give it!

'O my God, help me!' prayed the girl, as she hurried along the country road. 'Without Thy aid I can do nothing. Help me not to judge others harshly, to remember that I can't judge of the strength of those temptations to which others have yielded. Let me forget myself and my own poor opinions; let me not speak angrily or foolishly; and if Thy will does not forbid it, let me see my uncles true brothers again—Uncle Ross forgiven by the man he has injured, as a prelude to being pardoned by Thee!'