But things were not much better there, for she found Lady Markham with Fairfax’s card in her hand, which she was reading with a great deal of emotion. “Put it away with the letters,” Lady Markham said. They had kept all the letters which they received after Sir William’s death by themselves in the old despatch-box which had always travelled with him wherever he went, and which now stood--with something of the same feeling which might have made them appropriate the greenest paddock to his favourite horse--in Lady Markham’s room. Some of them were very “beautiful letters.” They had been dreadful to receive morning by morning, but they were a kind of possession--an inheritance now. “Put it with the letters,” Lady Markham said; “any one could see that his very heart was in it. He knew your dear father’s worth; he was capable of appreciating him; and he knows what a loss we have had. Poor boy--I will never forget his kindness--never as long as I live.” “But, mamma,” said Alice, loyal still though her heart was melting, “you know you thought it very strange of Mr. Fairfax to take that horrid little man’s part against Paul.” “I can’t think he did anything of the sort,” Lady Markham said, but she would not enter into the question. It was not wonderful, however, if Alice was angry. She had sent him away because of the general family anger against him; and lo, nobody seemed to feel that anger except herself. But it may be easily understood how Fairfax felt it a fatality when he found Gus’s portmanteaux packed, and himself awaiting his return to go by the same train. “Why should I stay here?” he said. “I did not come to England to stay in a village inn. I will go with you, and go to that lawyer, and get it all settled. Why should they make such a fuss about it? I mean no one any harm. Why can’t they take to me and make me one of the family? except that I should be there instead of my poor father, I don’t know what difference it need make.” “But that makes a considerable difference,” said Fairfax. “You must perceive that.” “Of course it makes a difference; between father and son there is always a difference--but less with me than with most people. I do not want to marry, for instance. Most men marry when they come into their estates. There was once a girl in the island,” said Gus, with a sigh; “but things were going badly, and she married a man in the Marines. No, if they will consent to consider me as one of the family--I like the children, and Alice seems a nice sort of girl, and my stepmother a respectable motherly woman----, eh?” Some hostile sound escaped from Fairfax which made the little gentleman look up with great surprise. He had not a notion why his friend should object to what he said.