Bartelotte was going to drive in the Bois at four o'clock; would mademoiselle go with her?"

Kitty nodded affirmatively; and, when Françine had gone, took up the letter, turning pale at the bulkiness of it. She was walking up and down, lacking courage to break the seal, when Myra peeped in, all smiles and sunshine.

'Kitty, I am going to breakfast next door, but I didn't tell you, as you must keep quiet, so as to be bright and entertaining at our little dinner to-night."

This speech did not make Kitty feel happier in mind.

"What a slave I am!" she said to herself, half aloud; and then she took the letter gently, feeling where her freedom lay. Who so free in all the world as Dr Norman's wife would be? Who so free, so honoured, so happy?

And with this thought in her mind, she summoned courage to put herself in communication with him.

The letter was dated Heidelberg, and ran as follows—

"MY DEAR KITTY,-When we parted in the Rue de Trévise some weeks ago, it was with no compact of silence on my part, and all the more, therefore, I excuse myself for disturbing you by a long and painful letter. It depends entirely upon your own wishes in the matter whether I ever write to you again. So, if this is to be my last letter, I will ask your kind forbearance; and if not, I know that you will pardon it for the sake of the motive with which it was written.

"Kitty, must I speak plainly to you? You have not deserved the reticence at my hands that my love for you would fain have made me show; but let me recall the events of the last few months, and leave you to judge for yourself. You came among us, the brightest thing we had: we tried to make you happy, and succeeded, as you said; and of us all it would be hard to say for a long time who loved you best. At length -there is no saying how these things happen-I longed to make you my wife, feeling sure that you would be happy so, and that, though much older than yourself and a widower, I could offer you an affection not altogether unworthy of your

youth, your beauty, and your gifted nature. You said that you would marry me, because you loved me ; and time wore on.

"Why you went to Mrs Wingfield's, why you broke your promise of returning to me, why you put me off with excuse after excuse, why you consented to spend the spring in Paris with your new friend, and why you are still with her instead of with me, are questions only your own heart can answer. How has it answered them? How has it answered them?

"O Kitty! it was consideration for you, not coldness, that kept me silent and unreproachful during those unhappy months of alternate hope and fear.

"How could I press selfish claims upon you? How could I recall promises that must have convicted you of ill faith towards myself? How could I spoil your peace? It seemed kindest to you and wisest for myself to wait.

"And what has waiting brought me? It has brought me no conviction of your affection for any one else-it has brought me no conviction of your indifference to myself. You say you cannot marry me- -at least, you think you cannot; but you give no valid reason for thinking thus, and without a valid reason I have no right to give you up.

"Think of it, Kitty. You have made a promise to one who has never deceived you in anything; who is just as deserving of such a promise now as when first you made it. Will you be true and keep it, or will you not? It is not simply a question of marrying me; it is a question of honour, and upon your manner of answering it depends the one faith without which life is contemptible-faith in yourself. I think it is not want of faith in me that holds you back, for you have so often said you could trust me. And you know-perhaps too wellhow much I care for you, so I need not repeat that old story.

"Do not be angry with me, dear Kitty, but remember how hard it is for any man to bear such a disappointment, especially when he is not conscious of having deserved it. I am humble enough, Heaven knows, dear, when I compare the little I have to give, and the all in all that I have to take at your

hands; but then a man cannot do more than love with his whole heart; and if that does not suffice for a woman, nothing will. We shall be turning our faces homeward in about a month's time, and I have decided to make another halt here on our way back from Switzerland. Address your letter plainly to Dr Norman, of Shelley, care of Herr Bran, Hôtel Adler; it will be quite safe in the hands of my old friend here; but do not let it arrive later than a month from this date. Your letter shall decide all.

"Prissy sends eleven kisses and her love to you. Laura seems happy in Paris. God bless you, dearest Kitty!

"Yours most truly and affectionately,
"EDWARD NORMAN."

And what did Kitty say to this letter? It did not put her in a passion. It did not make her wholly penitent. It did not draw her nearer to her lover, or repel her from him. It brought no tears.

But it set her thinking deeply. Had Dr Norman written after Perry's strain, it would have been easy to console him with tender phrases and sweet words, that might mean anything or nothing. Had he been a shade less frank, a shade more reproachful, it would have been as easy to renounce him coldly, cruelly. As it was, his letter was so kind, so just, so manly, that she quailed before it, and felt it to be the summoning voice of a judge.

She read the letter for a second and a third time, and saw that there was no unreading its purport. It was a sort of "Stand and deliver!" from which there was no appeal. He had done with sentimental skirmishing, with pleadings and promises, with everything but the naked truth, and that he would have from her at any cost. Kitty began to think that the naked truth would have been best from the beginning-if it were only a shade less ugly!

CHAPTER XXXI.

LAURA'S SLIPPERS.

DR NORMAN'S letter was, in fact, like the Japanese sentence upon a traitorous nobleman, which condemns him to commit suicide after his own fashion. He had not intended to be cruel; but poor Kitty looked tremblingly first at the cup of poison, then at the halter, then at the dagger, not knowing which punishment to choose. Meantime a month intervened between the sentence and its fulfilment, and each day of it seemed inexpressibly precious to her.

When not tormented by the thought that she must be her own fate, she felt rich, strong, glad in her sense of youth and power! Life was a game that she played well who can wonder that she enjoyed playing it? People were all interesting to her, less because her humanity was superabundant than because her principle of solidarity was developed almost to the pitch of an extra sense. What were we sent on earth for, she reasoned, but to get what we haven't got, and to give others what they are in want of? And she preached this text to herself from day to day. The question was constantly arising-Who could give her what she most wanted? and it was uppermost in her mind now.

There was Dr Norman ready to give her all he had-honour, affection, peace; but these did not seem enough for her. There was Perry flinging his life of love at her feet, and she could neither take it up nor wholly trample it under foot. There was Myra, who adored her after the fashion of women who must adore something, and she felt that Myra might ere long find new idols.

To whom, then, must she look ? She was rich in friends, in acquaintances, and she had one or two lovers; with whom of all these could she make her home-if she refused to marry Dr Norman "I will make him happy-I can't make myself miserable "this was the alternate burden of her thoughts for several days after receiving his letter.

stress; her eyes as soon tired as her slender little wrists. But she had a gentle face and sweet voice, and, though she only liked people here and there, counted her lovers and friends by dozens.

Sir George was an exceedingly moral but hard-natured man, whom nothing but an invalid daughter could have made at all human, and whose humanity was always assuming an apologetic attitude, as if a little ashamed of itself. But no one could be more useful in the capacity of a travelling companion than he, for he went into all the details of expenditure as if he were a courier, and got the best of everything for himself and his party without ever being cheated of a halfpenny. He was liberal, too, in providing pleasures for people his daughter liked, and she liked Kitty, she told him, almost better than any woman she knew.

"She has so much taste, papa," she would say, "a thing few women have. And she is so warm-hearted and kindly—too much so for this cold world. I can't think where she learned all her amiability; it is as perfect as a work of art.”

Then there were some musical people; a gifted Italian gentleman and his wife, who were Myra's guests and protégés, of course, and who showed their appreciation of such good hostesses by playing and singing divinely whenever they were asked to do so.

There was also a Mr Tyrell, one of those Englishmen whom one never fails to encounter abroad, who sketch a little, play a little, have a dozen foreign idioms at their tongue's end, are veritable enthusiasts where foreign art or climate or scenery are concerned, and turn up from year to year at Rome, on the Nile, in Norway, at the Swiss baths, no matter where-looking as young, as gay, and as much absorbed in their dilettantism as ever. They don't write, they don't read, they don't care a straw about politics or social reform, but they enjoy life to perfection.

And there was a Captain Longley, who hated everything that was not English, and whose chief pleasure in foreign travel seemed to consist in abusing it, who made up the party.