en now, after the ill-usage to which she had been
subjected, she had declared that the money should be forthcoming, and
given to the man who had treated her so shamefully. It might be well
that Alice should so feel and so act, but it behoved Kate to feel
and act very differently. She would tell her brother, even in the
house of death, should he come there, that his conduct was mean and
unmanly. Kate was no coward. She declared to herself that she would
do this even though he should threaten her with all his fury,--though
he should glare upon her with all the horrors of his countenance.

One o'clock, and two o'clock, still found her in the dark sombre
parlour, every now and then pacing the floor of the room. The fire
had gone out, and, though it was now the middle of April, she began
to feel the cold. But she would not go to bed before she had written
a line to Alice. To her brother a message by telegraph would of
course be sent the next morning; as also would she send a message
to her aunt. But to Alice she would write, though it might be but a
line. Cold as she was, she found her pens and paper, and wrote her
letter that night. It was very short. "Dear Alice, to-day I received
your letter, and to-day our poor old grandfather died. Tell my uncle
John, with my love, of his father's death. You will understand that
I cannot write much now about that other matter; but I must tell you,
even at such a moment as this, that there shall be no quarrel between
you and me. There shall be none at least on my side. I cannot say
more till a few days shall have passed by. He is lying up-stairs,
a corpse. I have telegraphed to George, and I suppose he will come
down. I think my aunt Greenow will come also, as I had written to her
before, seeing that I wanted the comfort of having her here. Uncle
John will of course come or not as he thinks fitting. I don't know
whether I am in a position to say that I shall be glad to see him;
but I should be very glad. He and you will know that I can, as yet,
tell you nothing further. The lawyer is to see the men about the
funeral. Nothing, I suppose, will be done till George comes. Your own
cousin and friend, KATE VAVASOR." And then she added a line below,
"My own Alice,--If you will let me, you shall be my sister, and be
the nearest to me and the dearest."

Alice, when she received this, was at the first moment so much
struck, and indeed surprised, by the tidings of her grandfather's
death, that sh