He had to go to the lamp, which was on the centre table, where Milly, confused and wondering to find herself without any share in her sister’s thoughts, had seated herself in forlorn virtue “to read her book.” Many a look Milly threw at Marjory upon the distant sofa in the dark, looking at that window where the shutters were not shut, nor the curtains drawn, and which frightened the child with eerie suggestions of some one who might be looking in upon her. She looked up at Mr. Fanshawe, too, as he stood over her, unconscious of her existence, reading that letter. What was it about? and why should he know about it, while Milly did not know? She read a sentence in her book between each of these glances, and was divided in her mind between the intent of this present drama, which she did not understand, and that of the story of the poor little boy, who died because he was good. The story itself made the child’s heart ache, and the other strange mystery confused her. Fanshawe read the letter anxiously, as if he had something to do with it; he thought he had for the moment. Marjory’s confidence in him, her appeal to him that morning, the subtle effect of feeling himself a member, even temporarily, of this household, and becoming penetrated with its atmosphere, all wrought in him. He had no intention of appearing more interested than he was; he was quite honest in the warmth and depth of his sympathetic feelings. And this was a letter of a very different character from the other; it was very short, and quite unemotional. “Dear Miss Heriot, “I hear from my sister that she is going home with her husband and the children; and I hear from others that he is very ill. I have made up my mind, with my father’s consent, to go with Matty, who, I need not tell you, is very unfit for any such responsibility. I have heard of you from poor Charles, and I think you may perhaps be glad to know that there is some one of some sense with them, whatever happens. I hope you will kindly allow me to go to you for a few days, to see them safely settled; but anyhow, I shall be with them, to take care of them to the best of my power. “Believe me, dear Miss Heriot, “Sincerely yours, “INVERNA BASSET.” “What a strange name, and what a strange little letter!” said Fanshawe, drawing a chair in front of Marjory’s sofa, and seating himself there; “but there is nothing in this, Miss Heriot, to alarm you--more--” Marjory had felt her heart lighten--until he came to that last word, which he said with hesitation, after a pause. For the moment it had appeared to her that the stranger’s eye, cooler than her own, had seen something re-assuring in the letter; but all the more for this momentary relief did her heart sink. “More!” she echoed, with a forlorn voice. “I could not be more alarmed than I am. I am almost more than alarmed. I am--.”