Kate waited till that all-absorbing event was over, and Mrs. Storey's attention free, before she took her into her confidence, as regarded her future plans. She was now most anxious to do so. Employment, either as a resident governess, or a companion, was absolutely necessary. She could not remain much longer with Mrs. Storey, and to accept money or protection from Lady Desmond, while her suspicions remained as keenly alive as they then were, was impossible. Her cousin's letters, though expressing a formal wish that she was happy and comfortable, had not, as yet, hinted at the future. And, however firmly Kate might trust to the mercy and guidance of an over-ruling Providence, the uncertainty of her prospects kept her in cruel suspense. If she could but only hear from Winter, and learn where to direct to him, all would be well. Then she would turn to Winter's last letter, and dwell upon the reality of its tone; for, strange though it be, there is something so unerring in the instinct of truth, that mere written expressions, in all the barrenness of ink and paper, convey the real, or the unreal unmistakeably. Kate was always comforted by the perusal of the good little artist's characteristic epistles; they placed him before her, in all the uncompromising sincerity she had tried, and never found wanting. The day but one after her party, Mrs. Storey disappointed Kate's intention of asking for a quiet confidential walk after dinner, by desiring the parlour maid at breakfast, to-- "Tell cook to have dinner at one precisely, I must go into town on particular business to-day." Kate declined her invitation to accompany her, observing-- "I want a long talk with you, dear Mrs. Storey, the first time you are at leisure." She received a ready assent to her proposition, from her curious hostess, who anticipated a clearing up of all the mysteries connected with Lord Effingham. Kate had not long enjoyed the unwonted stillness of the house, after Mrs. Storey had departed for town, and the children for their afternoon walk, when her attention was aroused by the sound of voices in the hall, and the next moment Lord Effingham walked into the room. Miss Vernon started, and with difficulty suppressed the exclamation of surprise which sprang to her lips. She rose from her seat, and stood silent, while her unwelcome visitor, advancing towards her, said, with the species of enforced quiet, which always indicated that emotion of some kind was struggling in his breast-- "I do not apologise for this intrusion, Miss Vernon, for you will, I know, forgive it, when I tell you how unconquerable is my desire to speak with you, alone. I have watched your amiable and intelligent hostess set out for town, and so made sure of some uninterrupted conversation--you must not refuse to hear me."