Emberance’s common sense sounded flat to Katharine’s excited spirits; but the words were consolatory, for she had by no means realised that she could alter the past arrangement by any act of hers. She turned away, and while she coloured to her ears, whispered, “But Emmy, would any one—ever—like girls, with such a story belonging to them?”

“Yes!” cried Emberance, “they would! They do, Kitty. It didn’t make any difference.”

Kate looked up surprised and curious, and Emberance blushed in her turn and laughed. “I mustn’t tell,” she said, “but there wasn’t any occasion to be an heiress, it all came right, and so it will—would—for you.”

“I know now why you don’t mind. I shouldn’t either,” said Kate slowly, after a pause.

She did not ask any more questions, and her agitation subsided; while to her mother’s intense disappointment, she said nothing more of what had passed. She was, however, much altered, and was meek and quiet, clinging much to Emberance during the next few days, and evidently needing her caressing kindness. For Kate had no idea that she had any character for independence to keep up; and as her brusquerie had been perfectly natural, so, with her changed mood was her increased softness.

It so happened that both Major Clare and his nieces were away for a few days; so that the Kingsworths were left much to themselves, and Kate formed and acted on a resolution. She was hardly conscious that she did not fully trust her mother’s views of the past; but she proved that she had some idea of independent judgment and action by writing to her uncle Canon Kingsworth a little letter that much surprised the kind old man. She said,—

“My dear Uncle,—
“Mamma has told me lately all that passed about this property, and also all that she believes about the death of my father and uncle. I think I ought to know all that really happened, that I may know what to think. Will you please tell me?
“I am your loving and dutiful niece,” (Kate had been brought up to old-fashioned respectfulness.)
“Katharine Kingsworth.”

This letter cost the Canon much consideration, and at first he thought that he would answer it in person; but finally decided that the safest way was to leave Kate’s mind to work the matter out for itself, without exposing himself to questions that he might not know how to answer. So after a day or two of suspense, Katharine received the following answer.

“My dear Katharine,—
“I feel deeply for the pain which you are now suffering, and which I am afraid I can in no way lessen; for sin brings sorrow in its train even upon one so innocent as yourself. Your mother has told you doubtless the actual facts, and I earnestly recommend you to draw from them no further inferences; but for your satisfaction I will repeat what passed.
“Your uncle James was a great trial to your grandfather, and I know that he had long considered him unworthy of the position of his eldest son. But so far as we know, he finally decided on disinheriting him from a misconception of your Aunt Ellen’s character and circumstances, and this misconception your father failed to remove when it lay in his power to do so. But remember, the time was so short that he may have been only waiting for a favourable opportunity. On the day of your grandfather’s funeral there was a painful dispute between your uncle and your father, and they left the house separately and in deep anger. As you know, they were found close together at the foot of the cliff, and it is your duty as a daughter to imagine no more than you know. They died together, and may God in His mercy pardon the sins of both! This terrible sorrow has been less painful to your mother than the sense of the wrong committed. With regard to your own position and heirship it is perfectly safe and legal, and at the present moment it is your duty so to train yourself that when you come of age you may fitly perform the duties to which you are called, whatever you then find that they may be. I mean that you are called upon in an especial manner to be just and unselfish, and to regard the position of owner of Kingsworth as a trust for the welfare of those dependent on the place, to keep your heart from worldliness, and to consider the trials from which your mother has suffered. You have been, perhaps, more than usually childish for your years; it behoves you now to learn to use your own judgment, and to act according to the dictates of your own conscience. May God bless you, my dear little girl, and give you that loyalty of spirit and charity of judgment which you so sorely need. So prays your loving uncle,—
“George Kingsworth.”

Katharine read this letter alone in her own room, and its solemn call to self-reliance and self-discipline fell on her heart with a dreadful weight. She did not understand it. She had failed to grasp the meaning of the wistful looks her mother cast on her out of the dark stern eyes from which she had always shrunk, she did not realise even yet that a great restoration was or would be in her power. If she had she would have been ready enough to fling away the burden and to forget the pain. Is that all? she might have said, if any one had told her so to atone for her father’s sins, if that would have given back the freedom of her spirit. Comfort and competence and all the little pleasures that were so sweet to her would be as much within her power as ever, and that sacrifice if she could have realised the possibility of it, would have seemed just then no sacrifice at all, a fact of which the old Canon had perhaps had some suspicion.