She had taken her seat in her own chair, and was cutting out some articles of linen clothing that looked as long as the room. Her income was a very moderate one now, and she did a good deal of sewing instead of putting it out. Sara took the stuff in her hand, and held it while her aunt cut: an interminable proceeding to an impatient helpmate, for Miss Davenal cut only about an inch at a time, and then drew a short thread and cut again. "Won't it tear?" asked Sara. "It _will_ wear. Did you ever know me buy linen that wouldn't wear? I have too good an eye for linen to buy what won't wear." "I asked, aunt, if it would not tear." "Tear!" repeated Miss Davenal, offended at the word--at the ignorance it betrayed. "No, it will not tear; and I should think there's hardly a parish school child in the kingdom but would know that, without asking." Sara, rebuked, held her part in silence. Presently Miss Davenal lifted her eyes and looked her full in the face. "Who was that letter from this morning?" "It was a private letter, aunt." "A what?" snapped Miss Davenal. Sara let fall the work, and stood fearlessly before Miss Davenal. The most gentle spirit can be aroused at times. "The letter was from a gentleman, aunt. It was a private letter to myself. Surely I am not so much of a child that I may not be trusted to receive one?" "A pri-vate let-ter!--A gentleman!" was the amazed reiteration of Miss Bettina. "_What_ do you say?" Sara stood quite still for a moment, while the faint flush that was called up died away on her cheeks, and then she bent close to her aunt's ear, her low voice unmistakably clear and distinct. "Aunt Bettina, you knew there was some unhappy business that papa was obliged to meet--and bear--just before he died. The letter I have received this morning bears reference to it. It is from a Mr. King, but I don't know him. I should be thankful if you would not force me to these explanations: they are very painful." Miss Bettina picked up the work and drew at a thread until it broke. "Who is Mr. King?" she asked. "I do not indeed know. I never saw him in my life. He had to write to me just a word about the business, and I must answer him. In telling you this much, Aunt Bettina, I have told all I can tell. Pray, for papa's sake, do not ask me further." "Well, this is a pretty state of things for the enlightened nineteenth century!" grunted Miss Bettina. "We have read of conspiracies and Rye-House plots, and all the rest of it: _this_ seems a plot, I think! Have you nothing more to say?" "No, aunt," was the low, firm answer. "Then you may go," said Miss Bettina, twitching the work out of Sara's hand. "I can do this myself." And Sara knew that no amount of entreaty would induce her aunt to admit of help in her cutting after that. She went upstairs, and met Neal coming out of the drawing-room.