“You are perfectly right in refusing all presents for either of the girls, and I should have thought Sir Within had more tact than to proffer them. I am also very much against you going to Dalradern Castle for Christmas, though Sir Gervais, up to this, does not agree with me. If this girl should not be sent away before the new year, I think you might advantageously remark to my brother that the visit would be a great interruption to all study, and a serious breach of that home discipline it has been your object to impose. And now, my dear Mademoiselle, accept all I have here said not only in your confidence, but in your friendship, and even where I appear to you nervously alive to small perils, give me credit for having thought and reflected much over them before I inflicted on you this long letter. “Discourage your prodigy, check her influence, and believe me, very sincerely your friend, “Georgina Courtenay. “P.S.--What can Sir W. mean by passing his winter in the Welsh mountains, after giving orders to have his villa near Genoa prepared for his reception? Find out this, particularly if there be a secret in it.” Mademoiselle Heinzleman received this letter as she was taking her half-hour’s walk in the garden after breakfast--one of the very few recreations she indulged in--while her pupils prepared their books and papers for the day. Anything like remonstrance was so totally new to her, that she read the letter with a mingled amazement and anger, and, though she read and re-read, in the hope of finding her first impression was an exaggerated one, the truth was that each perusal only deepened the impression, and made the pain more intense. It was not that her German pride only was wounded, but her dignity as a teacher--just as national an instinct as the pride of birth--and she muttered very mysterious gutturals to herself, as she went, about resigning her trust and retiring. This was, perhaps, too rash a step; at least, it required time to think of. Two hundred a year, and a position surrounded with many advantages! The other alternative was easier to send away Kate. A pity, perhaps, but, after all, as Miss Courtenay said, possibly a mercy. Who could tell? Mr. M’Kinlay might help her by his counsel. She liked him, and thought well of him. Kate, that was making such progress--that could already make out some of Schiller’s ballads! What a pity it was! And to think of her touch on the piano, so firm and yet so delicate! How tenderly she let the notes drop in one of those simple melodies from Spohr she was learning! Ach Gott! and what taste in drawing!