“May I ask,” said Kate, “what is the suggestion Mr. Purvis has been good enough to repeat?”
“That I should give you this little tract, Miss Dalton,” said Mrs. Ricketts as she drew out a miscellaneous assemblage of articles from a deep pocket, and selected from the mass a small blue-covered pamphlet, bearing the title, “Three Posers for Papists, by M. R.”
“Montague Ricketts,” said Purvis, proudly; “she wrote it herself, and the Pope won't let us into Rome in consequence. It 's very droll, too; and the part about the the Vir-gin—”
“You will, I 'm sure, excuse me, madam,” said Kate, “if I beg that this subject be suffered to drop. My thanks for the interest this gentleman and yourself have vouchsafed me will only be more lasting by leaving the impression of them unassociated with anything unpleasing. You were good enough to say that you had a letter for me?”
“A letter from your father, that dear, fond father, who dotes so distractingly upon you, and who really seems to live but to enjoy your triumphs. Martha, where is the letter?”
“I gave it to Scroope, sister.”
“No, you didn't. I never saw—”
“Yes, Scroope, I gave it to you, at the drawing-room fire—”
“Yes, to be sure, and I put it into the ca-ca-ca—”
“Not the candle, I hope,” cried Kate, in terror.