been three
weeks ago with his father, as he had been with Dahlia Feverel, and for
the same reason--because each had taken from him some of that armour of
self-confidence in which he had so greatly trusted; the winds of the
heath were blowing about him and he stood, stripped, shivering, before
the world.

"She was not good at that sort of thing"--that was exactly it, exactly
the summary of his new feeling about his aunt and uncle; they were not
able to cope with that hard, new world into which he had been so
suddenly flung--they were, he scornfully considered, "tea-table"
persons, and in so judging them he condemned himself.

"I'm so very sorry, dear. I did my very best. I went to see
the--um--Miss Feverel, and we talked about them. But I'm afraid that I
couldn't persuade her--she seemed determined----"

"What did she say?"

"Oh, very little--only that she considered that the letters were hers
and that therefore she had every right to keep them if she liked. She
seemed to attach some especial, rather sentimental value to them, and
considered, apparently, that it would be quite impossible to give them
up."

"How was she looking--ill?" It had been one of Robin's consolations
during these weeks to imagine her pale, wretched, broken down.

"Oh no, extremely well. She seemed rather amused at the whole affair.
I was not there very long."

"And is that all you have done? Have you, I mean, taken any other
steps?"

"Yes--I wrote yesterday morning. I got an answer this morning."

"What was it?" Robin spoke eagerly. Perhaps his aunt had some surprise
in store and would produce the letters suddenly; surely Dahlia would
not have written unless she had relented.

Clare went to her writing-table and returned with the letter, held
gingerly between finger and thumb.

"I'm afraid it's not very long," she said, laughing nervously, and
again looking at Robin appealingly. "I had written asking her to think
over what she had said to me the day before. She says:

"'DEAR Miss TROJAN--Surely the matter is closed after what happened the
other day? I am extremely sorry that you should be troubled by my
decision; but it is, I am afraid, unalterable.--Yours truly,

D. FEVEREL.'"

"Her decision?" cried Robin quickly. "Had she told you anything? Had
she decided anything?"

"Only that she would keep the letters," answered Clare slowly. "You
couldn't expect me, Robin dear, to argue with her about it. One had,
af