“My dear, I hope you will come here as often as you like,” said Mrs Mitford, with hospitable warmth; and then she thought of the danger to John, and stopped short and felt a little confused. “The Huntleys are friends of yours, are not they?” she went on, faltering. “When you are with them, it will be so easy to run over here.” “Oh, indeed, I should much rather come here at first hand, if you will have me,” said Kate, frankly. “I don’t think I am fond of the Huntleys. They are nice enough, but---- And, dear Mrs Mitford, I would rather go to you than to any one, you have been _so_ good to me--that is, if you like me to come here.” “My dear!” exclaimed Mrs Mitford, half touched, half troubled, “if I could think there was any amusement for you----” “Whether there may be amusement or not, there must always be a welcome. I am sure, mother, that is what you meant to say,” said John, with a certain suppressed indignation in his tone, which went to his mother’s heart. “Oh yes,” she said, more and more confused; “Miss Crediton knows that. If she can put up with our quietness--if she does not mind the seclusion. We have not seen so much of the Huntleys as we ought to have seen lately, but when they are here----” “I had much rather come when you were quite quiet. I love quiet,” said deceitful Kate, putting her face so close to her friend’s shoulder as almost to touch it in a caressing way she had. Mrs Mitford trembled with a presentiment of terror, and yet she could not resist the soft half-caress. “My dear child!” she cried, pressing Kate’s arm to her side. And John loomed over them both, a tall shadow, with a face which beamed through the darkness; they looked both so little beside him--soft creatures, shadowy, with wavy uncertain outlines, melting into the dark, not clear and black and well defined like himself--moving softly, with a faint rustle in the air, which might almost have been wings. His mother and---- what was Kate to him? Nothing--a stranger--a being from a different sphere; yet, at the same time, the one creature in all the world upon whom he had a supreme claim, whose life he had fought for, and rescued out of the very jaws of death. After this they went in with eyes a little dazzled by the sudden change into the drawing-room, where the lamps were lighted, and the moths came sweeping in at the open window, strange optimists, seeking the light at all costs. Kate threw herself down in a great chair, in the shadiest corner, her white dress giving forth (poor John thought) a kind of reflected radiance, moon-like and subdued. She sank down in the large wide seat, and gave a little yawn. “I’m so tired,” she said; “I think I shall make papa carry me up-stairs.” “Not your papa, my dear,” said Mrs Mitford, who, to tell the truth, was a little matter-of-fact; “not your papa. He does not look very strong, and it would be too much for him. The servants can do it; or perhaps John----”