“Christina,” she said solemnly, drawing herself up another inch, and looking at the fire herself, lest her daughter’s sighs should mollify her too soon, “I insist upon a full explanation. You have given me none. All I know at present is, that my daughter has so far forgotten what is due to herself as a gentlewoman, as to carry on a clandestine correspondence with some unknown person. I insist upon knowing at once who the person is.” Chris looked at her dolefully. “Oh, mother, won’t it do if I promise not to write again, and not to receive any more letters?” “No, Christina, it will not do,” said Mrs. Abercarne, obstinately. “It is a matter of course that you will cease this correspondence. But, in the meantime, I insist on knowing the name of the person who has induced you to jeopardise your own self-respect.” Whereupon Chris jumped up with a gesture indicating restlessness and despair. “All right, mother! Now, don’t scream; it’s Mr. Richard--there!” If a servant had suddenly appeared with the news that an invading army had landed at the pier-head, and was now surrounding the house, or that Lord Llanfyllin had poisoned Lady Llanfyllin and married his cook, poor Mrs. Abercarne would have been less utterly shocked and struck dumb than she was by this intelligence. For a few moments she could only stare at her daughter, who now, that the crisis was over, began to laugh half hysterically. “Mr.--Richard,” the poor lady at last gasped out. “Mr. Richard--the lu--lu--lunatic? Oh! it isn’t possible! It’s too awful--too appalling! I--I--I shall die if it’s true!” But Chris was getting better already. She slid down on her knees, and put her arm round her mother’s neck, unable now to restrain a wild inclination to laugh at her mother’s hopeless terror. “No, you won’t, mother. Of course I couldn’t help knowing you’d be awfully angry, and so I put off telling you. But it’s not half as bad as you think. Dick’s no more mad than you or I.” “Dick!” cried poor Mrs. Abercarne, with a shriek, which subsided into a moan. “To think of my daughter--my Christina, calling a m--m--madman Dick!” “But when I tell you that he’s not mad, not mad at all,” insisted Chris, raising her voice a little to emphasise her words. The words were hardly out of her mouth when she sprang up with a little cry. Mr. Bradfield was in the room. Chris became in an instant as red as she had been white before. “Have you been listening?” she asked, impulsively. “Sh-sh, Christina,” said her mother’s reproving voice. But the intruder answered with great meekness: “Well, I did hear what you were saying when I came in; and what’s more, I’m very glad I did, for you were making a statement which it’s my business to disprove. You were saying that somebody was not mad. Now, of course, you mean my unhappy ward, Richard.” “Your unhappy ward!” retorted Chris, with spirited emphasis. “Yes, I do mean him.” “You think he is not mad?” “Not mad enough to be shut up, at any rate.”