rough the
sunlit space.

I was sick and ashamed when I thought of this vain and gaudy scene and
the object which I supposed it was intended to serve.

The end of it all was that I wrote to my father, concealing the real
cause of my suffering, but telling him he could not possibly be aware of
what was being done in his name and with his money, and begging him to
put an end to the entertainment altogether.

The only answer I received was a visit from Nessy MacLeod. I can see her
still as she came into my room, the tall gaunt figure with red hair and
irregular features.

"Cousin Mary," she said, seating herself stiffly on the only
stiff-backed chair, and speaking in an impassive tone, "your letter has
been received, but your father has not seen it, his health being such as
makes it highly undesirable that he should be disturbed by unnecessary
worries."

I answered with some warmth that my letter had not been unnecessary, but
urgent and important, and if she persisted in withholding it from my
father I should deliver it myself.

"Cousin Mary," said Nessy, "I know perfectly what your letter is, having
opened and read it, and while I am as little as yourself in sympathy
with what is going on here, I happen to know that your father has set
his heart on this entertainment, and therefore I do not choose that it
shall be put off."

I replied hotly that in opening my letter to my father she had taken an
unwarrantable liberty, and then (losing myself a little) I asked her by
what right did she, who had entered my father's house as a dependent,
dare to keep his daughter's letter from him.

"Cousin Mary," said Nessy, in the same impassive tone, "you were always
self-willed, selfish, and most insulting as a child, and I am sorry to
see that neither marriage nor education at a convent has chastened your
ungovernable temper. But I have told you that I do not choose that you
shall injure your father's health by disturbing his plans, and you shall
certainly not do so."

"Then take care," I answered, "that in protecting my father's health you
do not destroy it altogether."

In spite of her cold and savourless nature, she understood my meaning,
for after a moment of silence she said:

"Cousin Mary, you may do exactly as you please. Your conduct in the
future, whatever it may be, will be no affair of mine, and I shall not
consider that I am in any way responsible for it."

At last I began to receive anonymous letters. They ca