While Kate O’Hara sauntered carelessly along her foot struck the letter, and it fell open. She stooped and picked it up, and was at once struck by the peculiar odour of jasmine on the paper, which was a favourite with Miss Courtenay. She turned to the address, “Mademoiselle de Heinzleman”--the de, too, was a courtesy Miss Courtenay affected--and so Kate stood still contemplating the document, and weighing it in her hand, as she muttered, “It does really feel heavy enough to be mischievous.” Her training had taught her to respect as inviolable the letter of another; she had over and over marked the deference paid to a seal, and seen even Ada’s letters from her playfellows handed to her unbroken, and she knew that to transgress in such a matter ranked in morals with a falsehood. She had no thought, then, of any dereliction, when in placing the fallen pages together within the envelope, her eye caught the words “Kitty O’Hara,” and lower down, “child of a poor cottier.” The temptation, stimulated by a passion fell as strong as curiosity, mastered her, and carrying away the letter into a secluded alley, she read it from end to end. There was much to gratify her vanity in it; there was the admission--and from no favouring witness either--that she had capacity of a high order, and a zeal to master whatever she desired to learn. But far above the pleasure these words afforded was the last paragraph, that which spoke of her “influence” over Sir Within Wardle. “Could this really be true? Had the little attentions he showed her a deeper significance? Did he really interest himself for her? Was it her lonely, friendless condition touched him? Was it that the same feeling, so harshly expressed by Miss Courtenay, the revulsion that yet awaited her, that moved him?” There was an ecstasy in the thought that filled her whole heart with joy. Sir Within was very rich--a great personage, too. The Vyners themselves spoke of him always with a certain deference. What a triumph if she had won him over to befriend her! These thoughts flew quickly through her mind, and as quickly she bethought her of the letter, and what was now to be done with it. She would have liked much to keep it, to have it by her to read and re-read, and study, and weigh. This was of course impossible. To take it to Mademoiselle would be to incur the risk of her suspecting she had read it. In an instant, she determined to lay it back again where she had found it, on the walk, and let chance determine what became of it. Her resolution was scarcely carried out, when she heard Mademoiselle Heinzleman’s voice calling her. “I have dropped a letter, Kate. I have mislaid it, or it has fallen out of my pocket. Come and help me to look for it,” said she, in deep confusion. “Is this it, Mademoiselle?” said Kitty, artlessly, as she picked it up from the gravel.