Lydia hastily stepped down from the ladder, and recoiled until she reached a chair, where she sat and read and reread these lines. The failing light roused her to action. She replaced the book on the shelf, and said, as she went to the writing-table, “If such a doubt as that haunted my father it will haunt me, unless I settle what is to be my heart’s business now and forever. If it be possible for a child of mine to escape this curse of autovivisection, it must inherit its immunity from its father, and not from me--from the man of emotion who never thinks, and not from the woman of introspection, who cannot help thinking. Be it so.” CHAPTER XIV Before many days had elapsed a letter came for Cashel as he sat taking tea with the Skene family. When he saw the handwriting, a deep red color mounted to his temples. “Oh, Lor’!” said Miss Skene, who sat next him. “Let’s read it.” “Go to the dickens,” cried Cashel, hastily baffling her as she snatched at it. “Don’t worrit him, Fan,” said Mrs. Skene, tenderly. “Not for the world, poor dear,” said Miss Skene, putting her hand affectionately on his shoulder. “Let me just peep at the name--to see who it’s from. Do, Cashel, DEAR.” “It’s from nobody,” said Cashel. “Here, get out. If you don’t let me alone I’ll make it warm for you the next time you come to me for a lesson.” “Very likely,” said Fanny, contemptuously. “Who had the best of it to-day, I should like to know?” “Gev’ him a hot un on the chin with her right as ever I see,” observed Skene, with hoarse mirth. Cashel went away from the table, out of Fanny’s reach; and read the letter, which ran thus: “Regent’s Park. “Dear Mr. Cashel Byron,--I am desirous that you should meet a lady friend of mine. She will be here at three o’clock to-morrow afternoon. You would oblige me greatly by calling on me at that hour. “Yours faithfully, “Lydia Carew.” There was a long pause, during which there was no sound in the room except the ticking of the clock and the munching of shrimps by the ex-champion. “Good news, I hope, Cashel,” said Mrs. Skene, at last, tremulously. “Blow me if I understand it,” said Cashel. “Can you make it out?” And he handed the letter to his adopted mother. Skene ceased eating to see his wife read, a feat which was to him one of the wonders of science. “I think the lady she mentions must be herself,” said Mrs. Skene, after some consideration. “No,” said Cashel, shaking his head. “She always says what she means.” “Ah,” said Skene, cunningly; “but she can’t write it though. That’s the worst of writing; no one can’t never tell exactly what it means. I never signed articles yet that there weren’t some misunderstanding about; and articles is the best writing that can be had anywhere.” “You’d better go and see what it means,” said Mrs. Skene. “Right,” said Skene. “Go and have it out with her, my boy.” “It is short, and not particularly sweet,” said Fanny. “She might have had the civility to put her crest at the top.”