At this time a letter reached her from Winter. He had been a much better correspondent since the poor Colonel's death, and his letters were a source of inexpressible comfort to Kate; they cheered, while they sympathized in her deep sorrow--she wrote to him in the fullest confidence, and detailed all matters of personal interest, with a minuteness that showed how welcome was the task of correspondence to her. The present despatch, after some slight sketch of his plans, which included an excursion of some months into Spain, and a few rapturous exclamations at the scenery, continued thus--"You say, 'now I have room enough in my heart to think of it, I begin to feel, in spite of Georgy's excessive kindness and generosity, a strangely, painful sensation, at times, that not even the clothes I wear, are, properly speaking, my own--shelter, food, all are hers; and though she never, I am certain, gives this a thought, I feel that it mars the equality, which is the soul of friendship--I feel strongly, though indistinctly that this must not, and cannot last; but I am, as yet, incapable of forming any future plan.' "All this is very natural, and exactly what I advised you and our dear departed friend against, when your cousin invited you to join her at Florence, last year. Dependency is a thing repugnant to human nature; but for the present it is right for you to stay where you are; so be patient, it will be time enough to talk of plans when we return, which will be soon, certainly before Christmas. I want to have you quietly to ourselves, away from finery and fashion, then we will settle everything. Meantime, as I consider you my adopted daughter, if you will allow me, you must just put the enclosed cheque in your dressing-box, as a sort of reserve, in case of foul weather--this is a mere sop to my fidgetty conscience, as I am too selfish to return home at once, to take care of you, which I believe it is my duty to do, and I shall have but small comfort if you refuse; pooh! my dear, it is only to oblige your old _maestro_! "I see our former acquaintance, Fred Egerton has been performing prodigies of valour against those wretched Sikhs--what deplorable insanity war is! I have no patience with such courage. Well, good night, I wish you could have a peep at the moon-lit mountain range, opposite my window. Ah! dear child, you have known much sorrow, but who can look on the exquisite loveliness, which earth, though cursed for our sins, still possesses, and doubt that boundless beneficence and wisdom alike framed our dwelling place, and directs the current of our lives, God bless you, Kate; my wife greets you, write soon. "Your true friend, "J. WINTER." * * * * *