They were but two
in number--and both were for Mrs. Linley. In the absence of any
correspondence of her own, Mrs. Presty took possession of her daughter's
letters.

"One addressed in the lawyer's handwriting," she announced; "and one
from Randal. Which shall I open for you first?"

"Randal's letter, if you please."

Mrs. Presty handed it across the table. "Any news is a relief from the
dullness of this place," she said. "If there are no secrets, Catherine,
read it out."

There were no secrets on the first page.

Randal announced his arrival in London from the Continent, and his
intention of staying there for a while. He had met with a friend
(formerly an officer holding high rank in the Navy) whom he was glad to
see again--a rich man who used his wealth admirably in the interest of
his poor and helpless fellow-creatures. A "Home," established on a new
plan, was just now engaging all his attention: he was devoting himself
so unremittingly to the founding of this institution that his doctor
predicted injury to his health at no distant date. If it was possible to
persuade him to take a holiday, Randal might return to the Continent as
the traveling-companion of his friend.

"This must be the man whom he first met at the club," Mrs. Presty
remarked. "Well, Catherine, I suppose there is some more of it. What's
the matter? Bad news?"

"Something that I wish Randal had not written. Read it yourself--and
don't talk of it afterward."

Mrs. Presty read:

"I know nothing whatever of my unfortunate brother. If you think this is
a too-indulgent way of alluding to a man who has so shamefully wronged
you, let my conviction that he is already beginning to suffer the
penalty of his crime plead my excuse. Herbert's nature is, in some
respects, better known to me than it is to you. I am persuaded that your
hold on his respect and his devotion is shaken--not lost. He has been
misled by one of those passing fancies, disastrous and even criminal in
their results, to which men are liable when they are led by no better
influence than the influence of their senses. It is not, and never will
be, in the nature of women to understand this. I fear I may offend you
in what I am now writing; but I must speak what I believe to be the
truth, at any sacrifice. Bitter repentance (if he is not already feeling
it) is in store for Herbert, when he finds himself tied to a person who
cannot bear comparison with you. I say this, pitying the poor gi