"Indeed, madam, I beg your pardon. Indeed, I did my very best, but—"
She started, looked up, and rose hastily from her chair. Lettice started, too, on her side, as she did so; and, advancing a few steps, exclaimed, "Catherine!"
"It must—it is—it is you!" cried Catherine hastily, coming forward and taking her by the hand. She gazed with astonishment at the worn and weather-beaten face, the miserable attire, the picture of utter wretchedness before her. "You!" she kept repeating, "Lettice! Lettice Arnold! Good Heavens! where are they all? Where is your father? Your mother? Your sister?"
"Gone!" said the poor girl. "Gone—every one gone but poor Myra!"
"And she—where is she? The beautiful creature, that used to be the pride of poor Mrs. Price's heart. How lovely she was! And you, dear, dear Lettice, how can you, how have you come to this?"
Mrs. Danvers stood like one petrified with astonishment while this little scene was going on. She kept looking at the two girls, but said nothing.
"Poor, dear Lettice!" Catherine went on in a tone of the most affectionate kindness, "have you come all through the streets and alone this most miserable morning? And working—working for me! Good Heavens! how has all this come about?"
"But come to the fire first," she continued, taking hold of the almost frozen hand.
Mrs. Danvers now came forward.
"You seem to have met with an old acquaintance, Catherine. Pray come to the fire, and sit down and warm yourself; and have you breakfasted?"