This was exactly Mrs. Abercarne’s view of the transaction, and she was rather shocked to find that it was not also her daughter’s. So she tried hard to impress upon Chris, who listened dutifully and without comment, that when two women of gentle birth and breeding took upon themselves such an appointment, they were indeed conferring upon the individual whose humble duty it was to maintain them in such a position an honour and a priceless boon. Chris, who was beginning secretly to indulge in the luxury of opinions of her own, grew rather anxious lest her mother’s peculiarities of style should frighten Mr. John Bradfield, and induce him to bestow the “appointment” in question upon some mother and daughter less well-born, perhaps, but at the same time less graciously condescending and more accommodating. She watched eagerly for the postman for the next few days, and when another letter did arrive in the neat, business-like hand, her fingers trembled as she ran with it to her mother. Then Chris noticed that Mrs. Abercarne, while still careful to affect the haughtiest indifference, was really as anxious as she as to the contents of the letter. Indeed, the poor lady had more debts and more difficulties than she let her child know anything about, and she was by this time wondering what would become of them if Mr. Bradfield should decide not to avail himself of her condescending offer. This was the letter: “DEAR MADAM,--Leave Charing Cross to-morrow (Thursday), at 3.30 you will reach Wyngham at 6.5 (if you don’t get into the wrong train when you change at Abbey Marsh), and you will find a conveyance at the station to bring you to the house.--Yours faithfully, “JOHN BRADFIELD.” Mrs. Abercarne drew a long breath. “To-morrow!” she gasped. “Oh, Chris! we must give the whole thing up. The man is evidently quite mad. I shouldn’t wonder if the place were to turn out to be a private lunatic asylum. To-morrow!” And the poor lady, bitterly disappointed, although she would not own it, fell to laughing hysterically. Chris threw her arms round her neck; she did not mean the project to fall through now. “Why not to-morrow, as well as any other day, mother, and get it over?” suggested she. “He isn’t mad, I expect. Only eccentric. You know that people who live in the country always grow eccentric and very self-willed. Don’t give up until you have seen what he is like.”