d to make you happy. You
seem to have appropriated it quite to yourself. I can not find one of
those faithful old domestics with whom my boyhood was passed. You
have surrounded yourself with your own servants. Until your money is
paid you will be quite at liberty to live here, or at Pomeroy Court,
whichever you prefer. Both are yours now, the Castle as much as
Pomeroy Court, as you remarked, with your usual delicacy, in your
last letter, since they both represent your own money.

"And now," said Lord Chetwynde, in conclusion, "we understand one
another. The time for taunts and sneers, for you, is over. Any
letters hereafter that may come to me in your handwriting will be
returned unopened. The one aim of my life hereafter shall be to undo,
as far as possible, the wrong done to us both by our parents. That
can never be all undone; but, at any rate, you may be absolutely
certain that you will get back every penny of the money which is so
precious to you, with interest. As to my visit here, do not let it
disturb you for one moment. I have no intention of making a scene for
the benefit of your gaping servants. My business now is solely to see
about my father's papers, to examine them, and take away with me
those that are of immediate use. While I am here we will meet at the
same table, and will be bound by the laws of ordinary courtesy. At
all other times we need not be conscious of one another's existence.
I trust that you will see the necessity of avoiding any open
demonstrations of hatred, or even dislike. Let your feelings be
confined to yourself, Lady Chetwynde; and do not make them known to
the servants, if you can possibly help it."

Lord Chetwynde seemed to have ended; for he arose and sauntered up to
the portrait, which he regarded for some time with fixed attention,
and appeared to lose himself in his thoughts. During the remarks
which he had been making Hilda had sat looking at the floor. Unable
to encounter the stern gaze of the man whom she felt to be her
master, she had listened in silence, with downcast eyes. There was
nothing for her to say. She therefore did the very best thing that
she could do under the circumstances--she said nothing. Nor did she
say any thing when he had ended. She saw him absorb himself in
regarding his own portrait, and apparently lose himself in his
recollections of the past. Of her he seemed to have now no
consciousness. She sat looking at him, as his side face was turned
toward