When Raynes, the coal-merchant, discovered that his daughter had received a shock and had come back home much sooner than she had expected to do so, he sat down and wrote a firm, cold letter to Mr. Desmond of Desmondstown. He said his child had been brought back to him at death's door and he wanted to know the reason of it. Had those wild Irish folk been playing pranks with his only child? He had no idea of addressing The Desmond as The. He had never heard of such a title, and if he had would not have used it. At last he received a reply in the neat, firm handwriting of Fergus Desmond. Fergus told him of the letter not being addressed right which naturally came into his possession. His father's title was The Desmond. He said he did not wish to complain of Matilda Raynes, but as her father wished to know the truth, he would tell him the truth. He then proceeded to give a graphic description of the thoroughbred Starlight and of Tilly's conduct with regard to the ten pins. He wasted no words, but told the story just as it stood. Tilly was sent away by The Desmond. He could not possibly have such a wicked girl in his house. There was one person whom The Desmond set great store by and that was his little granddaughter Margot, or the pushkeen as he called her. Tilly was jealous of the pushkeen and when she was not allowed to ride her horse she stuck pins into the saddle, hoping thereby to injure if not to kill the little girl. That was the story; he had nothing more to say. He was sorry for Mr. Raynes. Raynes passed the letter across the table to his wife, who read it with pursed-up lips and glittering pale-blue eyes. "Well, I must say it was a nasty thing to do," she said. "It was," said Raynes. "We'll teach her what's what when she's better." "She's better to-night, Robert. Mary Ann says she is nearly well." "We'll wait for what's what until to-morrow," said Robert Raynes. The next day Tilly was dressed. She had partaken of an excellent dinner prepared for her by Mary Ann, and a bright little fire burnt in her room. She was feeling still weak and tired. Her father came in and looked at her. She shrank away from him in a sort of terror. "Oh, you are afraid of me, are you?" said the coal-merchant. "You have good cause to be. Read that!" He passed Fergus Desmond's letter across the width of the little table and laid it in Tilly's hand. "Take your time," he said, "I'm in no hurry." He sat down deliberately and looked about him. Tilly could not see the letters at all at first from a queer sense of giddiness. She wished her father would go and leave her alone. But he sat quite calmly by the fire. "You'll just have the goodness to read that quietly," he said. "I'm in no manner of hurry. Take it in, take it all in!" By degrees Tilly did take it in. She raised terrified weak eyes to her father's face.