ts of
strange things were happening behind a locked door, he never quite knew
what, though he seemed forever trying to find out. In the morning,
before he was dressed, Mahommed brought a letter to his door; only one,
on a small tray. It was the first letter he had received since leaving
London--he, who had been used to sighing over the pile that heaped up
with every new post, and must presently be answered.

He recognized the handwriting at a glance, though he had seen it only
once, in a note written to Lady MacGregor. The letter was from Victoria,
and was addressed to "Mr. Stephen Knight," in American fashion--a
fashion unattractive to English eyes. But because it was Victoria's way,
it seemed to Stephen simple and unaffected, like herself. Besides, she
was not aware that he had any kind of handle to his name.

"Now I shall know where she was last night," he said to himself, and was
about to tear open the envelope, when suddenly the thought that she had
touched the paper made him tender in his usage of it. He found a
paper-knife and with careful precision cut the envelope along the top.
The slight delay whetted his eagerness to read what Victoria had to
tell. She had probably heard of the visit which she had missed, and had
written this letter before going to bed. It was a sweet thought of the
girl's to be so prompt in explaining her absence, guessing that he must
have suffered some anxiety.

"DEAR MR. KNIGHT,"

he read, the blood slowly mounting to his face as his eyes travelled
from line to line,

"I don't know what you will think of me when I have told you about
the thing I am going to do. But whatever you may think, don't think
me ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I am not that. I hate to go away
without seeing you again, yet I must; and I can't even tell you
why, or where I am going--that is the worst. But if you could know
why, I'm almost sure you would feel that I am doing the right
thing, and the only thing possible. Before all and above all with
me, must be my sister's good. Everything else has to be sacrificed
to that, even things that I value very, very much.

"Don't imagine though, from what I say, that I'm making a great
sacrifice, so far as any danger to myself is concerned. The
sacrifice is, to risk being thought unkind, ungrateful, by you, and
of losing your friendship. This is the _only_ danger I am running,
really; so don't fea