With the morning mail-bags Sam arrived in a heated condition, puffing and blowing. “I was in such a hurry to see how ye was, Miss,” he explained. “Keeping up your heart?” She gave him a nod and a brave smile. Poor old Sam! he was good and kind and willing, but how could he really help her from her hideous plight? They fell to work on the contents of the sacks, and the minutes ticked past. “Registered letter, Miss,” said Sam, throwing it to her end of the counter, as he usually did with such a packet. She was about to lay it aside for attention later when the address caught her eye. A cry escaped her. Sam turned to see her, white as a ghost, tearing at the envelope. “Oh, what can it be?” she whispered. Then, as if courage failed her, “Sam, come and take it. Tell me what it’s all about. I—I daren’t look. It may be nothing much, after all.” Sam’s fingers were none too steady as he received the envelope. “Registered at Glasgow,” he muttered, and proceeded to extract the contents. These were a fairly plump number of banknotes, and a half-sheet of paper bearing the words— “From an old friend of your father.” . . . Sam read them aloud while she stood rigid with her face in her hands. “Am I to count them?” he asked. “Yes,” she murmured. “Five-pun’ notes,” he said, and there followed a rustling pause. “Twenty o’ them—a hundred pound. . . . See!” he took one of her hands from her face, and pressed the bundle into it. “Feel them—they’re real, ye poor, pretty thing!” CHAPTER VI SAM was doomed to be late in starting on his round that morning. The moment Kitty’s mind grasped the significance of the windfall her tongue was loosed. She talked excitedly, even wildly. The sender of the notes—she wished he had given his name—must be some one whom her father had helped in the old days. Her father was always lending money that never came back. That was why there was none when he died. She hoped she might some day discover the sender, otherwise he could never realize how much more than kind, how truly wonderful, was the thing he had done. For he had given a desperate, persecuted girl her freedom! “But what are ye going to do, Miss?” Sam ventured at last. “I’m going to trust you,” she said, with a broken laugh. “Aye, surely ye can do that. But I hope ye’re no’ for being reckless. Your eyes are shining something terrible.” She laughed again, and said, “I’m going to London!” “London!” “To-night!” It took Sam some moments to recover. “But what’s taking ye a’ the road to London?” “I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve always said I would go if I had the money—and now I’ve got it!” “Ha’ ye friends in London?” “I’ve no enemies.” “Oh, but this’ll never do!” he cried. “What’ll happen to ye?” “Perhaps I’ll have some adventures—I hope so—an’—” “Adventures, guid God!” “—And I may make my fortune.” He threw up his hands muttering, “Oh, dear! the money has turned her head!”