"Do you think he would let me call on him? I want to tell him the plans that are coming into my head. I can explain all the business part to him. If I can get through this year without debt, I am pretty sure of providing you with an income--an increasing income. This is a joy I never anticipated. And then you can keep your little nephews, and be a real mother to them. I don't want to trouble you with the business details of my plan; you would not understand them. But Mr. Newton will. Pray write a line asking him to see me, to name his own time. Stay; here are paper and pen and ink; ask him to write to me. He knows--he knows my story. At least--" She stopped, coloring crimson. "He knows all it is needful for me to tell," said Katherine, gravely. "Yes, Rachel, it is better to explain all to him. He is kind and wise, and I am strangely stupefied by this extraordinary overturn of my fortunes. I shall be glad of your help, but do not neglect your own future, dear Rachel." "I shall not: I shall make enough for us both. You have indeed given me something to live for." CHAPTER XXVI. COLONEL AND MRS. ORMONDE. The moral effect of feeling in touch with some loyal, tender, sympathizing fellow-creature is immense. It gives faith in one's self--a belief in the possibilities for good hidden in the future; above all, relief from that most paralyzing of mental conditions, a sense of isolation. Katherine walked back alone in the dark. The sooner she accustomed herself to habits of independence the better; for the future she must learn to stand alone, to take care of herself, unassisted by maid or flunky. It made her a little nervous; for although in the old impecunious days she went on all necessary errands in the morning alone, she rarely left the house after sundown even with a companion. They were very monotonous days, those which seemed to have fled away so far into the soft misty gloom of the past. Yet how full of fragrance was their memory! The castle-building, the vague bright hopes, the joy of helping the dear mother, the utter absolute trust in her, the struggle with the necessities of life--all were more or less sweet; and now to what an end she had brought the simple drama of her youth! Had she resisted that strange prompting which kept her silent when Mr. Newton began to look for the will, how different everything might have been! Errington might be well off too, and she might never have seen him. With the thought of him came the sudden overpowering wish to hear his voice--clear, deliberate, convincing--which sometimes seized her in spite of every effort to banish it from her mind, and of which she was utterly, profoundly ashamed, the recurrence of which was infinitely painful. She must fill her heart with other thoughts, other objects. "Life is serious enough (the life which lies before me especially) to crowd out these follies. Why do I increase its gloom with imaginary troubles?"