, by the
arrival of a letter from Mrs. Wardour to Letty, written in a tone of
stiffly condescendent compassion--not so unpleasant to Letty as to her
friend, because from childhood she had been used to the nature that
produced it, and had her mind full of a vast, undefined notion of the
superiority of the writer. It may be a question whether those who fill
our inexperienced minds with false notions of their greatness, do us
thereby more harm or good; certainly when one comes to understand with
what an arrogance and self-assertion they have done so, putting into us
as reverence that which in them is conceit, one is ready to be scornful
more than enough; but, rather than have a child question such claims, I
would have him respect the meanest soul that ever demanded respect; the
first shall be last in good time, and the power of revering come forth
uninjured; whereas a child judging his elders has already withered the
blossom of his being.

But Mrs. Wardour's letter was kind-perhaps a little repentant; it is
hard to say, for ten persons will repent of a sin for one who will
confess it--I do not mean to the priest--that may be an easy matter,
but to the only one who has a claim to the confession, namely, the
person wronged. Yet such confession is in truth far more needful to the
wronger than to the wronged; it is a small thing to be wronged, but a
horrible thing to wrong.

The letter contained a poverty-stricken expression of sympathy, and an
invitation to spend the summer months with them at her old home. It
might, the letter said, prove but a dull place to her after the gayety
to which she had of late been accustomed, but it might not the less
suit her present sad situation, and possibly uncertain prospects.

Letty's heart felt one little throb of gladness at the thought of being
again at Thornwick, and in peace. With all the probable unpleasant
accompaniments of the visit, nowhere else, she thought, could she feel
the same sense of shelter as where her childhood had passed. Mary also
was pleased; for, although Letty might not be comfortable, the visit
would end, and by that time she might know what could be devised best
for her comfort and well-being.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

DISSOLUTION.

It was now Mary's turn to feel that she was, for the first time in her
life, about to be cut adrift--adrift, that is, as a world is adrift, on
the surest of paths, though without eyes to see. For ten days or so,
she could form