em ever since she set foot in
England; and as that won't do, she is coming up to-morrow to see what
personal persuasion will do."

"I dare say Mrs. Ormonde is fond of her sister-in-law. She is too well
off to have any mercenary designs."

"Is that all your experience has taught you?" (contemptuously). "If
there is any truth in hand-writing, that Mrs. Ormonde is a fool. Her
letter after Mrs. Liddell's death, which Katherine showed me because it
touched her, was the production of an effusive idiot. I don't trust
sentimentalists; they seldom have much honesty or justice. Katherine
Liddell is a little soft too, but she is by no means so asinine as the
others I have had. Wait, however--wait till some man takes her fancy;
that is the divining-rod to show where the springs of folly lie."

"Miss Liddell is a good deal changed," returned Bertie, slowly. "She
looks considerably older. No, that is not the right expression: I mean
she seems more mature than when I saw her before. What she says is said
deliberately; what she does is with the full consciousness of what she
is doing; but she looks as if she had suffered."

"She has," said Miss Payne, with an air of conviction. "Her grief for
her mother was, is, deep and real. I don't believe in floods of
tears--they are a relief."

"Yes; and though she looks so pale and sad, she is not a whit less
beautiful than she was."

"Beautiful!" repeated Miss Payne. "I rather admire her myself, but I
don't think any one could call her beautiful."

"Perhaps not. There is so much expression in her face, such feeling in
her eyes, that not many really beautiful women would stand comparison
with her."

Miss Payne sniffed, and then she smiled. "She is not a commonplace young
woman, though I fear she is easily imposed upon. I am afraid she may be
snapped up by some plausible fortune-hunter."

Bertie frowned slightly. "I trust she may be guided to happiness with
some good, God-fearing man," he said, and then, he bid his sister
good-night somewhat abruptly.

Meantime, Katherine sat plunged in thought beside the fire in her
bedroom. She was not given to weeping, but she was profoundly sad. To
find herself again in London without her mother seemed to renew the
intense grief which had indeed lost but little of its keenness. Never
had a mother been more terribly missed. They had been such sympathetic
friends, such close companions; they had had such a hearty respect for
and appreciation of each