r dear Kate!--what would
she think of the place now?"

"The thing is impossible," said Mark, sternly; "the girl has got a
hundred fancies and tastes, unsuited to our rude life; her French habits
would ill agree with our barbarism. You must write to your cousin--that
old Mrs. Bedingfield--if that's her name. She must take her for the
present, at least; she offered it once before."

"Yes," said the old man, with an energy he had not used till now, "she
did, and I refused. My poor brother detested that woman, and would
never, had he lived, have entrusted his daughter to her care. If she
likes it, the girl shall make this her home. My poor Harry's child shall
not ask twice for a shelter, while I have one to offer her."

"Have you thought, sir, how long you may be able to extend the
hospitality you speak of? Is this house now your own, that you can make
a proffer of it to any one?--and if it were, is it here, within these
damp, discoloured walls, with ruin without and within, that you'd desire
a guest--and such a guest?"

"What do you mean, boy?"

"I mean what I say. The girl educated in the midst of luxury, pampered
and flattered--we heard that from the Abbe--what a favourite she was
there, and how naturally she assumed airs of command and superiority
over the girls of her own age--truly, if penance were the object, the
notion is not a bad one."

"I say it again--this is her home. I grieve it should be so rude a
one--but, I'll never refuse to let her share it."

"Nor would I," muttered Mark, gloomily, "if it suited either her habits,
or her tastes. Let her come, however; a week's experience will do more
to undeceive her than if we wrote letters for a twelvemonth."

"You must write to her, Mark; you must tell her, that matters have not
gone so well with us latterly--that she'll see many changes here; but
mind, you say how happy we are to receive her."

"She can have her choice of blue bed-rooms, too--shall I say that?" said
Mark, almost savagely. "The damp has given them the proper tinge for her
fancy; and as to the view she speaks of, assuredly there is nothing
to baulk it: the window has fallen out many a day ago, that looked on
Keim-an-eigh."

"How can you torture me this way, boy?" said the old man, with a look
of imploring, to which his white hairs and aged features gave a most
painful expression. But Mark turned away, and made no answer.

"My uncle," said he, after a pause, "must answer this epistle.
Lett