A fortnight had passed, and had seemed nearly as long as a year, since Kate’s return from Oldburgh, when one afternoon, when she was lazily turning over the leaves of a story-book that she knew so well by heart that she could go over it in the twilight, she began to gather from her aunt’s words that somebody was coming.

They never told her anything direct; but by listening a little more attentively to what they were saying, she found out that a letter—no, a telegram—had come while she was at her lessons; that Aunt Barbara had been taking rooms at a hotel; that she was insisting that Jane should not imagine they would come to-night—they would not come till the last train, and then neither of them would be equal—

“Poor dear Emily! But could we not just drive to the hotel and meet them? It will be so dreary for them.”

“You go out at night! and for such a meeting! when you ought to be keeping yourself as quiet as possible! No, depend upon it they will prefer getting in quietly, and resting to-night; and Giles, perhaps, will step in to breakfast in the morning.”

“And then you will bring him up to me at once! I wonder if the boy is much altered!”

Throb! throb! throb! went Kate’s heart! So the terrible stern uncle was in England, and this was the time for her to be given up to the Lord Chancellor and all his myrmidons (a word that always came into her head when she was in a fright). She had never loved Aunt Jane so well; she almost loved Aunt Barbara, and began to think of clinging to her with an eloquent speech, pleading to be spared from the Lord Chancellor!

To-morrow morning—that was a respite!

There was a sound of wheels. Lady Jane started.

“They are giving a party next door,” said Lady Barbara.

But the bell rang.

“Only a parcel coming home,” said Lady Barbara. “Pray do not be nervous, Jane.”

But the red colour was higher in Barbara’s own cheeks, as there were steps on the stairs; and in quite a triumphant voice the butler announced, as he opened the door, “Colonel and Mrs. Umfraville!”

Kate stood up, and backed. It was Aunt Barbara’s straight, handsome, terrible face, and with a great black moustache to make it worse. She saw that, and it was all she feared! She was glad the sofa was between them!

There was a lady besides all black bonnet and cloak; and there was a confusion of sounds, a little half sobbing of Aunt Jane’s; but the other sister and the brother were quite steady and grave. It was his keen dark eye, sparkling like some wild animal’s in the firelight, as Kate thought, which spied her out; and his deep grave voice said, “My little niece,” as he held out his hand.

“Come and speak to your uncle, Katharine,” said Lady Barbara; and not only had she to put her hand into that great firm one, but her forehead was scrubbed by his moustache. She had never been kissed by a moustache before, and she shuddered as if it had been on a panther’s lip.

But then he said, “There, Emily;” and she found herself folded up in such arms as had never been round her before, with the very sweetest of kisses on her cheeks, the very kindest of eyes, full of moisture, gazing at her as if they had been hungry for her. Even when the embrace was over, the hand still held hers; and as she stood by the new aunt, a thought crossed her that had never come before, “I wonder if my mamma was like this!”

There was some explanation of how the travellers had come on, &c., and it was settled that they were to stay to dinner; after which Mrs. Umfraville went away with Lady Barbara to take off her bonnet.

Colonel Umfraville came and sat down by his sister on the sofa, and said, “Well Jane, how have you been?”

“Oh! much as usual:” and then there was a silence, till she moved a little nearer to him, put her hand on his arm, looked up in his face with swimming eyes, and said, “O Giles! Giles!”

He took her hand, and bent over her, saying, in the same grave steady voice, “Do not grieve for us, Jane. We have a great deal to be thankful for, and we shall do very well.”

It made that loving tender-hearted Aunt Jane break quite down, cling to him and sob, “O Giles—those dear noble boys—how little we thought—and dear Caergwent too—and you away from home!”

She was crying quite violently, so as to be shaken by the sobs; and her brother stood over her, saying a kind word or two now and then, to try to soothe her; while Kate remained a little way off, with her black eyes wide open, thinking her uncle’s face was almost displeased—at any rate, very rigid. He looked up at Kate, and signed towards a scent-bottle on the table. Kate gave it; and then, as if the movement had filled her with a panic, she darted out of the room, and flew up to the bedrooms, crying out, “Aunt Barbara, Aunt Jane is crying so terribly!”

“She will have one of her attacks! Oh!” began Lady Barbara, catching up a bottle of salvolatile.

“Had we not better leave her and Giles to one another?” said the tones that Kate liked so much.

“Oh! my dear, you don’t know what these attacks are!” and away hurried Lady Barbara.

The bonnet was off now, leaving only a little plain net cap under it, round the calm gentle face. There was a great look of sadness, and the eyelids were heavy and drooping; but there was something that put Kate in mind of a mother dove in the softness of the large tender embrace, and the full sweet caressing tone. What a pity that such an aunt must know that she was an ill-behaved child, a misfortune to her lineage! She stood leaning against the door, very awkward and conscious. Mrs. Umfraville turned round, after smoothing her hair at the glass, smiled, and said, “I thought I should find you here, my little niece. You are Kate, I think.”

“I used to be, but my aunts here call me Katharine.”

“Is this your little room?” said Mrs. Umfraville, as they came out. The fact was, that she thought the sisters might be happier with their brother if she delayed a little; so she came into Kate’s room, and was beginning to look at her books, when Lady Barbara came hurrying up again.

“She is composed now, Emily. Oh! it is all right; I did not know where Katharine might be.”

Kate’s colour glowed. She could not bear that this sweet Aunt Emily should guess that she was a state prisoner, kept in constant view.

Lady Jane was quiet again, and nothing more that could overthrow her spirits passed all the evening; there was only a little murmur of talk, generally going on chiefly between Lady Barbara and Mrs. Umfraville, though occasionally the others put in a word. The Colonel sat most of the time with his set, serious face, and his eye fixed as if he was not attending, though sometimes Kate found the quick keen brilliance of his look bent full upon her, so as to terrify her by its suddenness, and make her hardly know what she was saying or doing.

The worst moments were at dinner. She was, in the first place, sure that those dark questioning eyes had decided that there must be some sad cause for her not being trusted to drink her tea elsewhere; and then, in the pause after the first course, the eyes came again, and he said, and to her, “I hope your good relations the Wardours are well.”

“Quite well—thank you,” faltered Kate.

“When did you see them last?”

“A—a fortnight ago—” began Kate.

“Mr. Wardour came up to London for a few hours,” said Lady Barbara, looking at Kate as if she meant to plunge her below the floor; at least, so the child imagined.

The sense that this was not the whole truth made her especially miserable; and all the rest of the evening was one misery of embarrassment, when her limbs did not seem to be her own, but as if somebody else was sitting at her little table, walking upstairs, and doing her work. Even Mrs. Umfraville’s kind ways could not restore her; she only hung her head and mumbled when she was asked to show her work, and did not so much as know what was to become of her piece of cross-stitch when it was finished.

There was some inquiry after the De la Poers; and Mrs. Umfraville asked if she had found some playfellows among their daughters.

“Yes,” faintly said Kate; and with another flush of colour, thought of having been told, that if Lady de la Poer knew what she had done, she would never be allowed to play with them again, and therefore that she never durst attempt it.

“They were very nice children,” said Mrs. Umfraville.

“Remarkably nice children,” returned Lady Barbara, in a tone that again cut Kate to the heart.

Bed-time came; and she would have been glad of it, but that all the time she was going to sleep there was the Lord Chancellor to think of, and the uncle and aunt with the statue faces dragging her before him.

Sunday was the next day, and the uncle and aunt were not seen till after the afternoon service, when they came to dinner, and much such an evening as the former one passed; but towards the end of it Mrs. Umfraville said, “Now, Barbara, I have a favour to ask. Will you let this child spend the day with me to-morrow? Giles will be out, and I shall be very glad to have her for my companion.”

Kate’s eyes glistened, and she thought of stern Proserpine.

“My dear Emily, you do not know what you ask. She will be far too much for you.”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Mrs. Umfraville, smiling.

“And I don’t know about trusting her. I cannot go out, and Jane cannot spare Bartley so early.”

“I will come and fetch her,” said the Colonel.

“And bring her back too. I will send the carriage in the evening, but do not let her come without you,” said Lady Barbara earnestly.

Had they told, or would they tell after she was gone to bed? Kate thought Aunt Barbara was a woman of her word, but did not quite trust her. Consent was given; but would not that stern soldier destroy all the pleasure? And people in sorrow too! Kate thought of Mrs. Lacy, and had no very bright anticipations of her day; yet a holiday was something, and to be out of Aunt Barbara’s way a great deal more.

She had not been long dressed when there was a ring at the bell, and, before she had begun to expect him, the tall man with the dark lip and grey hair stood in her schoolroom. She gave such a start, that he asked, “Did you not expect me so soon?”

“I did not think you would come till after breakfast: but—”

And with an impulse of running away from his dread presence, she darted off to put on her hat, but was arrested on the way by Lady Barbara, at her bedroom door.

“Uncle Giles is come for me,” she said, and would have rushed on, but her aunt detained her to say, “Recollect, Katharine, that wildness and impetuosity, at all times unbecoming, are particularly so where there is affliction. If consideration for others will not influence you, bear in mind that on the impression you make on your uncle and aunt, it depends whether I shall be obliged to tell all that I would willingly forget.”

Kate’s heart swelled, and without speaking she entered her own room, thinking how hard it was to have even the pleasure of hoping for ease and enjoyment taken away.

When she came down, she found her aunt—as she believed—warning her uncle against her being left to herself; and then came, “If she should be too much for Emily, only send a note, and Bartley or I will come to fetch her home.”

“She wants him to think me a little wild beast!” thought Kate; but her uncle answered, “Emily always knows how to deal with children. Good-bye.”

“To deal with children! What did that mean?” thought the Countess, as she stepped along by the side of her uncle, not venturing to speak, and feeling almost as shy and bewildered as when she was on the world alone.

He did not speak, but when they came to a crossing of a main street, he took her by the hand; and there was something protecting and comfortable in the feel, so that she did not let go; and presently, as she walked on, she felt the fingers close on hers with such a quick tight squeeze, that she looked up in a fright and met the dark eye turned on her quite soft and glistening. She did not guess how he was thinking of little clasping hands that had held there before; and he only said something rather hurriedly about avoiding some coals that were being taken in through a round hole in the pavement.

Soon they were at the hotel; and Mrs. Umfraville came out of her room with that greeting which Kate liked so much, helped her to take off her cloak and smooth her hair, and then set her down to breakfast.

It was a silent meal to Kate. Her uncle and aunt had letters to read, and things to consult about that she did not understand; but all the time there was a kind watch kept up that she had what she liked; and Aunt Emily’s voice was so much like the deep notes of the wood-pigeons round Oldburgh, that she did not care how long she listened to it, even if it had been talking Hindostanee!

As soon as breakfast was over, the Colonel took up his hat and went out; and Mrs. Umfraville said, turning to Kate, “Now, my dear, I have something for you to help me in; I want to unpack some things that I have brought home.”

“Oh, I shall like that!” said Kate, feeling as if a weight was gone with the grave uncle.

Mrs. Umfraville rang, and asked to have a certain box brought in. Such a box, all smelling of choice Indian wood; the very shavings that stuffed it were delightful! And what an unpacking! It was like nothing but the Indian stall at the Baker Street Bazaar! There were two beautiful large ivory work-boxes, inlaid with stripes and circles of tiny mosaic; and there were even more delicious little boxes of soft fragrant sandal wood, and a set of chessmen in ivory. The kings were riding on elephants, with canopies over their heads, and ladders to climb up by; and each elephant had a tiger in his trunk. Then the queens were not queens, but grand viziers, because the queen is nobody in the East: and each had a lesser elephant; the bishops were men riding on still smaller elephants; the castles had camels, the knights horses; and the pawns were little foot-soldiers, the white ones with guns, as being European troops, the red ones with bows and arrows. Kate was perfectly delighted with these men, and looked at and admired them one by one, longing to play a game with them. Then there was one of those wonderful clusters of Chinese ivory balls, all loose, one within the other, carved in different patterns of network, and there were shells spotted and pink-mouthed, card-cases, red shining boxes, queer Indian dolls; figures in all manner of costumes, in gorgeous colours, painted upon shining transparent talc or on soft rice-paper. There was no describing how charming the sight was, nor how Kate dwelt upon each article; and how pleasantly her aunt explained what it was intended for, and where it came from, answering all questions in the nicest, kindest way. When all the wool and shavings had been pinched, and the curled-up toes of the slippers explored, so as to make sure that no tiny shell nor ivory carving lurked unseen, the room looked like a museum; and Mrs. Umfraville said, “Most of these things were meant for our home friends: there is an Indian scarf and a Cashmere shawl for your two aunts, and I believe the chessmen are for Lord de la Poer.”

“O Aunt Emily, I should so like to play one game with them before they go!”

“I will have one with you, if you can be very careful of their tender points,” said Mrs. Umfraville, without one of the objections that Kate had expected; “but first I want you to help me about some of the other things. Your uncle meant one of the work-boxes for you!”

“O Aunt Emily, how delightful! I really will work, with such a dear beautiful box!” cried Kate, opening it, and again peeping into all its little holes and contrivances. “Here is the very place for a dormouse to sleep in! And who is the other for?”

“For Fanny de la Poer, who is his godchild.”

“Oh, I am so glad! Fanny always has such nice pretty work about!”

“And now I want you to help me to choose the other presents. There; these,” pointing to a scarf and a muslin dress adorned with the wings of diamond beetles, “are for some young cousins of my own; but you will be able best to choose what the other De la Poers and your cousins at Oldburgh would like best.”

“My cousins at Oldburgh!” cried Kate. “May they have some of these pretty things?” And as her aunt answered “We hope they will,” Kate flew at her, and hugged her quite tight round the throat; then, when Mrs. Umfraville undid the clasp, and returned the kiss, she went like an India-rubber ball with a backward bound, put her hands together over her head, and gasped out, “Oh, thank you, thank you!”

“My dear, don’t go quite mad. You will jump into that calabash, and then it won’t be fit for anybody. Are you so very glad?”

“Oh! so glad! Pretty things do come so seldom to Oldburgh!”

“Well, we thought you might like to send Miss Wardour this shawl.”

It was a beautiful heavy shawl of the soft wool of the Cashmere goats; really of every kind of brilliant hue, but so dexterously blended together, that the whole looked dark and sober. But Kate did not look with favour on the shawl.

“A shawl is so stupid,” she said. “If you please, I had rather Mary had the work-box.”

“But the work-box is for Lady Fanny.”

“Oh! but I meant my own,” said Kate earnestly. “If you only knew what a pity it is to give nice things to me; they always get into such a mess. Now, Mary always has her things so nice; and she works so beautifully; she has never let Lily wear a stitch but of her setting; and she always wished for a box like this. One of her friends at school had a little one; and she used to say, when we played at roe’s egg, that she wanted nothing but an ivory work-box; and she has nothing but an old blue one, with the steel turned black!”

“We must hear what your uncle says, for you must know that he meant the box for you.”

“It isn’t that I don’t care for it,” said Kate, with a sudden glistening in her eyes; “it is because I do care for it so very much that I want Mary to have it.”

“I know it is, my dear;” and her aunt kissed her; “but we must think about it a little. Perhaps Mary would not think an Indian shawl quite so stupid as you do.”

“Mary isn’t a nasty vain conceited girl!” cried Kate indignantly. “She always looks nice; but I heard Papa say her dress did not cost much more than Sylvia’s and mine, because she never tore anything, and took such care!”

“Well, we will see,” said Mrs. Umfraville, perhaps not entirely convinced that the shawl would not be a greater prize to the thrifty girl than Kate perceived.

Kate meanwhile had sprung unmolested on a beautiful sandalwood case for Sylvia, and a set of rice-paper pictures for Lily; and the appropriating other treasures to the De la Poers, packing them up, and directing them, accompanied with explanations of their habits and tastes, lasted till so late, that after the litter was cleared away there was only time for one game at chess with the grand pieces; and in truth the honour of using them was greater than the pleasure. They covered up the board, so that there was no seeing the squares, and it was necessary to be most inconveniently cautious in lifting them. They were made to be looked at, not played with; and yet, wonderful to relate, Kate did not do one of the delicate things a mischief!

Was it that she was really grown more handy, or was it that with this gentle aunt she was quite at her ease, yet too much subdued to be careless and rough?

The luncheon came; and after it, she drove with her aunt first to a few shops, and then to take up the Colonel, who had been with his lawyer. Kate quaked a little inwardly, lest it should be about the Lord Chancellor, and tried to frame a question on the subject to her aunt; but even the most chattering little girls know what it is to have their lips sealed by an odd sort of reserve upon the very matters that make them most uneasy; and just because her wild imagination had been thinking that perhaps this was all a plot to waylay her into the Lord Chancellor’s clutches, she could not utter a word on the matter, while they drove through the quiet squares where lawyers live.

Mrs. Umfraville, however, soon put that out of her head by talking to her about the Wardours, and setting open the flood gates of her eloquence about Sylvia. So delightful was it to have a listener, that Kate did not grow impatient, long as they waited at the lawyer’s door in the dull square, and indeed was sorry when the Colonel made his appearance. He just said to her that he hoped she was not tired of waiting; and as she replied with a frightened little “No, thank you,” began telling his wife something that Kate soon perceived belonged to his own concerns, not to hers; so she left off trying to gather the meaning in the rumble of the wheels, and looked out of window, for she could never be quite at ease when she felt that those eyes might be upon her.

On coming back to the hotel, Mrs. Umfraville found a note on the table for her: she read it, gave it to her husband, and said, “I had better go directly.”

“Will it not be too much? Can you?” he said very low; and there was the same repressed twitching of the muscles of his face, as Kate had seen when he was left with his sister Jane.

“Oh yes!” she said fervently; “I shall like it. And it is her only chance; you see she goes to-morrow.”

The carriage was ordered again, and Mrs. Umfraville explained to Kate that the note was from a poor invalid lady whose son was in their own regiment in India, that she was longing to hear about him, and was going out of town the next day.

“And what shall I give you to amuse yourself with, my dear?” asked Mrs. Umfraville. “I am afraid we have hardly a book that will suit you.”

Kate had a great mind to ask to go and sit in the carriage, rather than remain alone with the terrible black moustache; but she was afraid of the Colonel’s mentioning Aunt Barbara’s orders that she was not to be let out of sight. “If you please,” she said, “if I might write to Sylvia.”

Her aunt kindly established her at a little table, with a leathern writing-case, and her uncle mended a pen for her. Then her aunt went away, and he sat down to his own letters.

Kate durst not speak to him, but she watched him under her eyelashes, and noticed how he presently laid down his pen, and gave a long, heavy, sad sigh, such as she had never heard when his wife was present; then sat musing, looking fixedly at the grey window; till, rousing himself with another such sigh, he seemed to force himself to go on writing, but paused again, as if he were so wearied and oppressed that he could hardly bear it.

It gave Kate a great awe of him, partly because a little girl in a book would have gone up, slid her hand into his, and kissed him; but she could nearly as soon have slid her hand into a lion’s; and she was right, it would have been very obtrusive.

Some little time had passed before there was an opening of the door, and the announcement, “Lord de la Poer.”

Up started Kate, but she was quite lost in the greeting of the two friends; Lord de la Poer, with his eyes full of tears, wringing his friend’s hand, hardly able to speak, but just saying, “Dear Giles, I am glad to have you at home. How is she?”

“Wonderfully well,” said the Colonel, with the calm voice but the twitching face. “She is gone to see Mrs. Ducie, the mother of a lad in my regiment, who was wounded at the same time as Giles, and whom she nursed with him.”

“Is not it very trying?”

“Nothing that is a kindness ever is trying to Emily,” he said, and his voice did tremble this time.

Kate had quietly re-seated herself in her chair. She felt that it was no moment to thrust herself in; nor did she feel herself aggrieved, even though unnoticed by such a favourite friend. Something in the whole spirit of the day had made her only sensible that she was a little girl, and quite forgot that she was a Countess.

The friends were much too intent on one another to think of her, as she sat in the recess of the window, their backs to her. They drew their chairs close to the fire, and began to talk, bending down together; and Kate felt sure, that as her uncle at least knew she was there, she need not interrupt. Besides, what they spoke of was what she had longed to hear, and would never have dared to ask. Lord de la Poer had been like a father to his friend’s two sons when they were left in England; and now the Colonel was telling him—as, perhaps, he could have told no one else—about their brave spirit, and especially of Giles’s patience and resolution through his lingering illness; how he had been entirely unselfish in entreating that anything might happen rather than that his father should resign his post; but though longing to be with his parents, and desponding as to his chance of recovery, had resigned himself in patience to whatever might be thought right; and how through the last sudden accession of illness brought on by the journey, his sole thought had been for his parents.

“And she has borne up!” said Lord de la Poer.

“As he truly said, ‘As long as she has anyone to care for, she will never break down.’ Luckily, I was entirely knocked up for a few days just at first; and coming home we had a poor young woman on board very ill, and Emily nursed her day and night.”

“And now you will bring her to Fanny and me to take care of.”

“Thank you—another time. But, old fellow, I don’t know whether we either of us could stand your house full of children yet. Emily would be always among them, and think she liked it; but I knew how it would be. It was just so when I took her to a kind friend of ours after the little girls were taken; she had the children constantly with her, but I never saw her so ill as she was afterwards.”

“Reaction! Well, whenever you please; you shall have your rooms to yourselves, and only see us when you like. But I don’t mean to press you; only, what are you going to do next?”

“I can hardly tell. There are business matters of our own, and about poor James’s little girl, to keep us here a little while.” (“Who is that?” thought Kate.)

“Then you must go into our house. I was in hopes it might be so, and told the housekeeper to make ready.”

“Thank you; if Emily— We will see, when she comes in I want to make up my mind about that child. Have you seen much of her?”

Kate began to think honour required her to come forward, but her heart throbbed with fright.

“Not so much as I could wish. It is an intelligent little monkey, and our girls were delighted with her; but I believe Barbara thinks me a corrupter of youth, for she discountenances us.”

“Ah! one of the last times I was alone with Giles, he said, smiling, ‘That little girl in Bruton Street will be just what Mamma wants;’ and I know Emily has never ceased to want to get hold of the motherless thing ever since Mrs. Wardour’s death. I know it would be the greatest comfort to Emily, but I only doubted taking the child away from my sisters. I thought it would be such a happy thing to have Jane’s kind heart drawn out; and if Barbara had forgiven the old sore, and used her real admirable good sense affectionately, it would have been like new life to them. Besides, it must make a great difference to their income. But is it possible that it can be the old prejudice, De la Poer? Barbara evidently dislikes the poor child, and treats her like a state prisoner!”

Honour prevailed entirely above fear and curiosity. Out flew Kate, to the exceeding amaze and discomfiture of the two gentlemen. “No, no, Uncle Giles; it is—it is because I ran away! Aunt Barbara said she would not tell, for if you knew it, you would—you would despise me;—and you,” looking at Lord de la Poer, “would never let me play with Grace and Addy again!”

She covered her face with her hands—it was all burning red; and she was nearly rushing off, but she felt herself lifted tenderly upon a knee, and an arm round her. She thought it her old friend; but behold, it was her uncle’s voice that said, in the softest gentlest way, “My dear, I never despise where I meet with truth. Tell me how it was; or had you rather tell your Aunt Emily?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Kate, all her fears softened by his touch. “Oh no! please don’t go, Lord de la Poer; I do want you to know, for I couldn’t have played with Grace and Adelaide on false pretences!” And encouraged by her uncle’s tender pressure, she murmured out, “I ran away—I did—I went home!”

“To Oldburgh!”

“Yes—yes! It was very wrong; Papa—Uncle Wardour, I mean—made me see it was.”

“And what made you do it?” said her uncle kindly. “Do not be afraid to tell me.”

“It was because I was angry. Aunt Barbara would not let me go to the other Wardours, and wanted me to write a—what I thought—a fashionable falsehood; and when I said it was a lie,” (if possible, Kate here became deeper crimson than she was before,) “she sent me to my room till I would beg her pardon, and write the note. So—so I got out of the house, and took a cab, and went home by the train. I didn’t know it was so very dreadful a thing, or indeed I would not.”

And Kate hid her burning face on her uncle’s breast, and was considerably startled by what she heard next, from the Marquis.

“Hm! All I have to say is, that if Barbara had the keeping of me, I should run away at the end of a week.”

“Probably!” and Lord de la Poer saw, what Kate did not, the first shadow of a smile on the face of his friend, as he pressed his arm round the still trembling girl; “but, you see, Barbara justly thinks you corrupt youth.—My little girl, you must not let him make you think lightly of this—”

“Oh, no, I never could! Papa was so shocked!” and she was again covered with confusion at the thought.

“But,” added her uncle, “it is not as if you had not gone to older and better friends than any you have ever had, my poor child. I am afraid you have been much tried, and have not had a happy life since you left Oldburgh.”

“I have always been naughty,” said Kate.

“Then we must try if your Aunt Emily can help you to be good. Will you try to be as like her own child to her as you can, Katharine?”

“And to you,” actually whispered Kate; for somehow at that moment she cared much more for the stern uncle than the gentle aunt.

He lifted her up and kissed her, but set her down again with the sigh that told how little she could make up to him for the son he had left in Egypt. Yet, perhaps that sigh made Kate long with more fervent love for some way of being so very good and affectionate as quite to make him happy, than if he had received her demonstration as if satisfied by it.