Meanwhile Horatia Cunningham opened the letter from her friend, without in the least expecting it to contain an invitation to visit the schoolfellow whom they all talked of as the millionaire's daughter. Great was her surprise on reading it, for Sarah never talked at school of her people or her home, and the girls vaguely imagined that she was unhappy in her home.
'Mamma, just listen to this letter,' Horatia cried, as she read the letter aloud at the breakfast-table:
'"Dear Horatia,—Will you come and spend as much of the holidays as you can spare with me? We live on a hill outside Ousebank, so that you will not be in a manufacturing town, and we can go for plenty of walks or rides and drives and play tennis as much as you like. I shall be all alone, as my brother is going to stay with friends in Scotland.—Your affectionate friend, Sarah Clay."'
'What an extraordinary letter! She is not gushing,' said Lady Grace Cunningham, as she continued to pour out the coffee.
'Is she an orphan, and what does she mean by being all alone? Has she no guardian or chaperon?' inquired Horatia's father.
'She has a father and a mother. She is the daughter of a millionaire blanket-maker named Clay.'
'I believe I've heard the name; but I don't know what I've heard of him,' said Mr Cunningham.
'That would account for her odd way of writing,' said his wife.
'What is odd about it?' demanded Horatia.
'Her writing without mentioning her mother's name, and she never says she would like to see you. Besides, to begin with, as a matter of politeness, Mrs Clay should have written to me,' objected Lady Grace Cunningham.