rs an undying
grudge to the postman, in that he has expressed himself less enamored
of her waning charms than of those of the more buxom Jane, who queens
it over the stewpans and the cold joints.

"Most improper of the postman," replies Mr. Massereene, soothingly.

Meantime, Molly is standing staring curiously at her missive.

"I don't know the writing," she says in a vague tone. "I do hope it
isn't a bill."

"A bill, with that monogram!" exclaims Luttrell. "Not likely. I would
swear to a dunning epistle at twenty yards' distance."

"Who can it be from?" wonders Molly, still dallying with one finger
inserted beneath the flap of the envelope.

"Perhaps, if you look within you may find out," suggests John, meekly;
and thus encouraged she opens the letter and reads.

At first her face betrays mere indifference, then surprise, then a
sudden awakening to intense interest, and lastly unmitigated
astonishment.

"It is the most extraordinary thing," she says, at last, looking up,
and addressing them in an awestruck whisper, "the most unexpected.
After all these years,--I can scarcely believe it to be true."

"But what is it, darling?" asks Letty, actually tingling with
excitement.

"An invitation to Herst Royal!"

"I don't believe you," cries Luttrell, who means no rudeness at all,
but is merely declaring in a modern fashion how delighted beyond
measure he is.

"Look: is not that Marcia's writing? I suppose she wrote it, though it
is dictated by grandpapa."

All four heads were instantly bent over the clear, bold calligraphy to
read the cold but courteous invitation it contains.

"Dear Eleanor" is given to understand that her grandfather will be
pleased to make her acquaintance, if she will be pleased to transfer
herself and her maid to Herst Royal on the twenty-seventh of the
present month. There are a few hints about suitable trains, a request
that a speedy reply in the affirmative will be sent, and then "dear
Eleanor" is desired to look upon Mr. Amherst as her "affectionate
grandfather." Not one word about all the neglect that has been showered
upon her for nineteen years.

"Well?" says Luttrell, who is naturally the first to recover himself.

"Had you anything to do with this?" asks John, turning almost fiercely
to him.

"Nothing, on my honor."

"He must be near death," says Letitia. Molly is silent, her eyes still
fixed upon the letter. "I think, John--she ought to go."

"Of course she shall go,"