It was Aspatria's sorrowful, questioning note. Written while Brune waited, it was badly written, incorrectly constructed and spelled, and generally untidy. It had the same effect upon Ulfar that a badly dressed, untidy woman would have had. He was ashamed of the irregular, childish scrawl. He did not take the trouble to put himself in the atmosphere in which the anxious, sorrowful words had been written. He crushed the paper in his hand with much the same contemptuous temper with which Elizabeth had seen him treat a dunning letter. She knew, however, that this letter was from Aspatria, and, saying something about her father, she went into an adjoining room, and left Ulfar and Sarah together. She thought Sarah would be the proper alterative. The first words Sir Thomas Fenwick uttered regarded Aspatria. Turning his head feebly, he asked: "Has Ulfar quarrelled with Miss Anneys? I hear nothing of her lately." "I think he is tired of his fancy for her. There is no quarrel." "She was a good girl,--eh? Kindhearted, beautiful,--eh, Elizabeth?" "She certainly was." He said no more then; but at midnight, when Ulfar was sitting beside him, he called his son, and spoke to him on the subject. "I am going--almost gone--the way of all flesh, Ulfar. Take heed of my last words. You promised to make Miss Anneys your wife,--eh?" "I did, father." "Do not break your promise. If she gives it back to you, that might be well; but you cannot escape from your own word and deed. Honour keeps the door of the house of life. To break your word is to set the door wide open,--open for sorrow and evil of all kinds. Take care, Ulfar." The next day he died, and one of Ulfar's first thoughts was that the death set him free from his promise for one year at the least. A year contained a multitude of chances. He could afford to write to Aspatria under such circumstances. So he answered her letter at once, and it seemed proper to be affectionate, preparatory to reminding her that their marriage was impossible until the mourning for Sir Thomas was over. Also death had softened his heart, and his father's last words had made him indeterminate and a little superstitious. A clever woman of the world would not have believed in this letter; its _aura_--subtle but persistent, as the perfume of the paper--would have made her doubt its fondest lines. But Aspatria had no idea other than that certain words represented absolutely certain feelings. The letter made her joyful. It brought back the roses to her cheeks, the spring of motion to her steps. She began to work in her room once more. Now and then her brothers heard her singing the old song she had sung so constantly with Ulfar,--