"I am,
"My dear nephew,
"Yours very affectionately,
"P. Trevethlan Pendarrel."
Helen watched her brother's face as he read this effusion of sympathy, and was almost alarmed at the change which came over it. He held the letter at arm's length, and gazed upon it: the lessons of the portrait-gallery crowded thickly upon him, and those of the library were forgotten.
"May I read it, Randolph?" his sister asked, timidly laying her hand on his extended arm.
"Read it!" he repeated. "Ay, read it, Helen; read it, and learn what we have become! Well might our father say that a favour received from Philip Pendarrel would disturb him in his grave."
"Was it not kindly meant?" Helen said, gently, after perusing the letter.
"Is insult ever kind?" asked her brother in reply. "Think they the spirit of our house is extinct, that they come in such hot haste to exult over its decay? Helen, the letter gives me heart. Why have we desponded of our scheme? We are not yet absolutely beggars. The last moveable in the castle shall be sold, the last farthing spent, in the struggle for independence. And if it fail, we will come back to our cold hearth, and here, for the last time, our hearts shall beat together as they do now. But, Helen, my dearest sister, we will not fail."
"And this promised visit?" his sister said, after a pause.
"Mrs. Pendarrel must return as she comes," said Randolph. "She does not cross the threshold of Trevethlan Castle while I am its master.—Come, let us take a turn in the gallery."