s, from among a heap of correspondence, the accumulation of many
weeks.

Quantities of envelopes were torn open, and the contents thrown aside,
begging letters, decently veiled congratulations from "old friends" who
had not so far shown any particular desire to make their friendship a
joy to him.

Presently he came upon a long, closely written letter of several sheets,
in a slanting hand, which he was about to dismiss as another begging
letter when his eye fell on the signature. Bellows? Bulteel? Buller?
_Bellairs?_

Aunt Aggie's signature was quite illegible. It was an arranged squiggle
painfully acquired in youth, which through life had resulted in all
kinds of difficulties with tradespeople, and in continual annoyance and
inconvenience to herself. Letters and parcels were frequently directed
to her as A. Buller, Esq. She could only account for this mistake by the
business-like nature of her style and handwriting. She often told her
friends that, unless people knew her personally, her letters were
generally believed to be a man's.

It had never struck Aunt Aggie that Lord Lossiemouth might possibly, in
an interval of fifteen years, have forgotten who _A._ Bellows might be.

But the words "my beloved niece Magdalen" strongly underlined, and the
postmark on the envelope, showed him who A. Bellairs was. He thought he
remembered an old aunt who lived near Priesthope.

He read the long sentimental effusion and bit his lip.

Ah, me! Was that half-forgotten, dim-in-the-distance boyish love of his
to be raked up again now!

He sighed impatiently. Why had Fate parted him and Magdalen? He still
regretted her in a way, when he was depressed or harassed, or disgusted
with the world in general; and he was often depressed and harassed and
disgusted.

More letters. What business had people to give him the trouble of
reading them? The floor was becoming strewn with his correspondence. The
empty fireplace had become a target for crumpled balls of paper.

A short one in a large, scrambling, illiterate hand with a signature
that might mean anything. That tall capital, shaped like a ham, was
perhaps a B.

The letter was written on Priesthope notepaper. "_My daughter
Magdalen._"

This, then, was from Colonel Bellairs.

It was not such a very bad letter, but it was a deplorably unwise one.
When had Colonel Bellairs ever indited a wise one! But he made his
precarious position even less tenable by ignoring the fact that Lord