"That comes of their imperfect education. What harm do you suppose could anywhere befall well brought-up girls? We have been self-dependent from childhood; taught to be so. Coral could take care of herself the whole world over, and meet with consideration, wheresoever she might be." "What do you call her--Coral? It is a very pretty name." "And coral is her favourite ornament: it suits her pale skin. Her name is really Coralie, but I call her Coral--just as she calls me Vera. Do you like my name--Verena?" "Very much indeed. Have you read 'Sintram'?" "'Sintram'!--no," she answered. "Is it a book?" "A very nice book, indeed, translated from the German. I will lend it you, if you like, Miss Verena." "Oh, thank you. I am fond of nice books. Coralie does not care for books as I do. But--I want you to tell me," she broke off, turning her fair face to me, the white cloud drawn round it, and her sweet blue eyes laughing and dancing--"I can't quite make out who you are. They are not your father and mother, are they?"--nodding to the Squire and Mrs. Todhetley, who were on ever so far in front with Sir Dace. "Oh no. I only live with them. I am Johnny Ludlow." * * * * * Maythorn Bank had not an extensive correspondence as a rule, but three letters were delivered there the following morning. One of the letters was for Verena: which she crushed into her hand in the passage and ran away with to her room. The others, addressed to Sir Dace, were laid by his own man, Ozias, on the breakfast-table to await him. "The West Indian mail is in, papa," observed Coralie, beginning to pour out the coffee as her father entered. "It has brought you two letters. I think one of them is from George Bazalgette." Sir Dace wore a rich red silk dressing-gown, well wadded. A large fire burnt in the grate of the small room. He felt the cold here much. Putting his gold eye-glasses across his nose, as he slowly sat down--all his movements were deliberate--he opened the letter his daughter had specially alluded to, and read the few lines it contained. "What a short epistle!" exclaimed Coralie. "George Bazalgette is coming over; he merely writes to tell me so," replied Sir Dace. "Verena," he added, for just then Verena entered and wished him good-morning, with a beaming face, "I have a letter here from George Bazalgette. He is coming to Europe; coming for you." A defiant look rose to Verena's bright blue eyes. She opened her mouth to answer; paused; and closed it again without speaking. Perhaps she recalled the saying, "Discretion is the better part of valour." It certainly is, when applied to speech.