ith bated breath to
the wind rustling in the elm-trees, fancying he could bear that same
passionate cry ringing still in his ears--the cry of an old man parted
from his kin and waiting for death in a lonely land.

CHAPTER XIX

Ernestine found a letter on her plate a few mornings afterwards which
rather puzzled her. It was from a firm of solicitors in Lincoln's
Inn--the Eastchester family solicitors--requesting her to call that
morning to see them on important business. There was not a hint as
to the nature of it, merely a formal line or two and a signature.
Ernestine, who had written insulting letters to all her relatives during
the last few days, smiled as she laid it down. Perhaps the family had
called upon Mr. Cuthbert to undertake their defence and bring her round
to a reasonable view of things. The idea was amusing enough, but her
first impulse was not to go. Nothing but the combination of an idle
morning and a certain measure of curiosity induced her to keep the
appointment.

She was evidently expected, for she was shown at once into the private
office of the senior partner. The clerk who ushered her in pronounced
her name indistinctly, and the elderly man who rose from his chair at
her entrance looked at her inquiringly.

"I am Miss Wendermott," she said, coming forward. "I had a letter from
you this morning; you wished to see me, I believe."

Mr. Cuthbert dropped at once his eyeglass and his inquiring gaze, and
held out his hand.

"My dear Miss Wendermott," he said, "you must pardon the failing
eyesight of an old man. To be sure you are, to be sure. Sit down, Miss
Wendermott, if you please. Dear me, what a likeness!"

"You mean to my father?" she asked quietly.

"To your father, certainly, poor, dear old boy! You must excuse me, Miss
Wendermott. Your father and I were at Eton together, and I think I may
say that we were always something more than lawyer and client--a good
deal more, a good deal more! He was a fine fellow at heart--a fine, dear
fellow. Bless me, to think that you are his daughter!"

"It's very nice to hear you speak of him so, Mr. Cuthbert," she said.
"My father may have been very foolish--I suppose he was really worse
than foolish--but I think that he was most abominably and shamefully
treated, and so long as I live I shall never forgive those who were
responsible for it. I don't mean you, Mr. Cuthbert, of course. I mean my
grand-father and my uncle." Mr. Cuthbert shook his he