stening to the full voice of
the sea as it broke three hundred feet below, against the beach and
rocky walls of the little town. She was lying in a tiny white room, one
of the cells of the old monastery, and the sun as it rose above the
Salernian mountains--the mountains that hold Paestum in their blue and
purple shadows--danced in gold on the white wall. The bell of the
cathedral far below tolled the hour. She supposed it must be six
o'clock. Two hours more or so, and Lord Maxwell's letter might be looked
for.

She lay and thought of it--longed for it, and for the time of answering
it, with the same soreness that had marked all the dreams of a restless
night. If she could only see her father's letter! It was inconceivable
that he should have mentioned _her_ name in his plea. He might have
appealed to the old friendship between the families. That was possible,
and would have, at any rate, an _appearance_ of decency. But who could
answer for it--or for him? She clasped her hands rigidly behind her
head, her brows frowning, bending her mind with an intensity of will to
the best means of assuring Aldous Raeburn that she and her mother would
not encroach upon him. She had a perpetual morbid vision of herself as
the pursuer, attacking him now through his friend, now through her
father. Oh! when would that letter come, and let her write her own!

She tried to read, but in reality listened for every sound of awakening
life in the hotel. When at last her mother's maid came in to call her,
she sprang up with a start.

"Deacon, are the letters come?"

"There are two for your mother, miss; none for you."

Marcella threw on her dressing-gown, watched her opportunity, and
slipped in to her mother, who occupied a similar cell next door.

Mrs. Boyce was sitting up in bed, with a letter before her, her pale
blue eyes fixed absently on the far stretch of sea.

She looked round with a start as Marcella entered. "The letter is to me,
of course," she said.

Marcella read it breathlessly.

"Dear Mrs. Boyce,--I have this morning received from your solicitor, Mr.
French, a letter written by Mr. Boyce to myself in November of last
year. In it he asks me to undertake the office of executor, to which, I
hear from Mr. French, he has named me in his will. Mr. French also
enquires whether I shall be willing to act, and asks me to communicate
with you.

"May I, then, venture to intrude upon you with these few words? Mr.
Boyce refers in