Above all, high as the highest star, in her pure soul shone the duty imposed on her by her mother. If she could not combine her duty to the dear ones under the brown thatch with the charge of Larry’s destiny, she would not undertake the latter. And now, most horrible gall to her womanly mind, came the knowledge that she—she whom Larry loved and looked up to—she, she who loved the careless lad, even she must step in between him and his uncle’s property, that she was chosen by old Langford as the weapon of his revenge on the Nanspians. The Langford estate must descend to Larry should his uncle die childless, and she—— Her breath came in a gasp. She tore up the cold dockleaves and pressed them to her brow to cool the burning there, to take the sting out of her nettled brain. There was no rest for Honor anywhere, in the meadow or in her bed—no rest for her evermore. She rose and went back to the house, but when she reached the door, true to her regular habits, remembered that she had left the sack and the bench in the field, and went back, fetched them, and put each in its proper place. Nothing was ever left littering about by Honor. If she had been dying and had seen a chip on the floor, she would have striven to rise and remove it. In the morning the carrier and his two eldest daughters looked haggard and pale. The children seemed aware of trouble. Joe was attentive and helped to quiet and amuse the youngest, and watched his father, but especially Honor, to read what was menaced in their faces. He had not been at home when Langford came, and his sister Pattie could give him but the vaguest idea of what had occurred. All she knew was that it was a trouble connected with Charles, who had run away. The carrier had to be ready early to start for Tavistock market. Honor and Kate prepared breakfast for him and the children, without a word passing between them on what was uppermost in their minds. As they were eating, the Ashbury postboy passed down the lane and called at the steps. The carrier went out. ’A letter for you.’ Oliver took and paid for it, then brought it in and opened it slowly with shaking fingers. He, Honor, Kate knew that it must have reference to their trouble. It was in the handwriting of Charles; it bore the Plymouth postmark. The carrier spread it on his plate; he did not read it aloud because Joe and the other children were present; but Honor and Kate stood behind him and read over his shoulder without uttering a word. This was the letter:—