“A little of both, I opine. Mind,” said she, laughing, “I have not the vaguest notion of what you were balancing in your mind, but somehow I suspect unmixed good or evil is very rare, and I take my stand on a compromise. Am I right?” “I scarcely know, but I can't submit the case to you. I have an old-fashioned prejudice against letting young people judge their seniors. Let us talk of something else. What shall it be?” “I want to talk to you of Tom.” “I have just been speaking to Haire about him. We must get him back here, Lucy,--we really must.” “Do you mean here, in this house, doctor?” “Here, in this house. Come, don't shake your head, Lucy. I see the necessity for it on grounds you know nothing of. Lady Lendrick is surrounding your grandfather with her family, and I want Tom back here just that the Chief should see what a thorough Lendrick he is. If your grandfather only knew the stuff that's in him, he 'd be prouder of him than of all his own successes.” “No, no, no,--a thousand times no, doctor! It would never do,--believe me, it would never do. There are things which a girl may submit to in quiet obedience, which in a man would require subserviency. The Sewells, too, are to be here on Saturday, and who is to say what that may bring forth?” “She wrote to you,” said the doctor, with a peculiar significance in his voice. “Yes, a strange sort of note too; I almost wish I could show it to you,--I 'd so like to hear what you 'd say of the spirit of the writer.” “She told me she would write,” said he again, with a more marked meaning in his manner. “You shall see it,” said she, resolutely; “here it is;” and she drew forth the letter and handed it to him. For an instant she seemed as if about to speak, but suddenly, as if changing her mind, she merely murmured, “Read it, and tell me what you think of it.” The note ran thus:-- “My dearest Lucy,--We are to meet to-morrow, and I hope and trust to meet like sisters who love each other. Let me make one brief explanation before that moment arrives. I cannot tell what rumors may have reached you of all that has happened here. I know nothing of what people say, nor have I the faintest idea how our life may have been represented. If you knew me longer and better, you would know that I neither make this ignorance matter of complaint nor regret. I have lived about long enough to take the world at its just value, and not to make its judgments of such importance as can impair my self-esteem and my comfort. It would, however, have been agreeable to me to have known what you may have heard of me--of us--as it is not impossible I might have felt the necessity to add something,--to correct something,--perhaps to deny something. I am now in the dark, and pray forgive me if I stumble rudely against you, where I only meant to salute you courteously.