"I trust that you are in good health, and with best wishes for your prosperity and happiness,
"I remain, dear Sophia, yours very truly,
"Wolfer.
"P. S.—I omitted to say that I should be pleased to pay Miss Lorton an honorarium of fifty guineas per annum."
At another time Nell would have found it difficult to refrain from laughing at the stilted phraseology of the letter, at the pomposity with which the proposal was made, and the meanness which strove to hide itself in a postscript; but a Punch and Judy show would have seemed a funereal performance at that moment, and she stared as blankly at the letter when she had finished it as if she had been reading some language which had no meaning for her.
Mrs. Lorton emitted a cough of self-satisfaction.
"It is extremely kind and thoughtful of my Cousin Wolfer," she said; "and I must say that I think you are an extremely fortunate girl, Eleanor, to have had such an offer made you. Of course, if you had been still engaged to Mr. Vernon, you would have been obliged to have sent a refusal to Lord Wolfer; but, as it is, I presume you will not hesitate for a moment, but will jump at such an opportunity."
Nell looked before her blankly, and remained silent.
"It will be a chance such as few girls of your position ever meet with; for, of course, when my cousin speaks of a housekeeper, he does not wish us to infer that you would be expected to take the position of a menial. No; he will not forget that though you are not my daughter, I married your father, and that you are, therefore, connected with the family. Of course, you will go into society, you will meet the elite and the crème de la crème, and will, therefore, enjoy advantages similar to those which I enjoyed, but which I, alas! threw away. Really, when one comes to consider it, this breach of your engagement with this Mr. Vernon is quite providential, as it removes the only obstacle to your accepting my cousin's noble offer."
Nell woke with a start when the stream of self-complacent comment had ceased, and realized that she was being asked to decide. What should she do? To leave Shorne Mills, to go into the world among strangers, to enter a big house as a poor relation—she shrank from the prospect for a moment, then she nerved herself to face it. After all, she could never be happy at Shorne Mills again. Every tree, every rock, every human being would remind her of Drake, of the lover she had lost. With Dick gone, there would be nothing for her to do, nothing to distract her mind from the perpetual brooding over the few past weeks of happiness, and the long, gray life before her. With these people there would be sure to be some work for her, something that would save her from spending every hour in futile regret and hopeless longing.