“When I ascertain anything of the least importance, I shall write again. “Madam, “Your Obedient Servant, “Charles Atheling.” Charlie had never written to a lady before; he was a little embarrassed about it the first time, but this was his second epistle, and he had become a little more at his ease. The odd thing about the correspondence was, that Charlie did not express either hopes or opinions; he did not say what he expected, or what were his chances of success--he only reported what he was doing; any speculation upon the subject, more especially at this crisis, would have been out of Charlie’s way. “What do you call your brother when you write to him?” asked Miss Anastasia abruptly, addressing Rachel. Rachel coloured violently; she had so nearly forgotten her old system--her old representative character--that she was scarcely prepared to answer such a question. With a mixture of her natural manner and her assumed one, she answered at last, in considerable confusion, “We call him Louis; he has no other name.” “Then he will not take the name of Rivers?” said Miss Anastasia, looking earnestly at the shrinking girl. “We have no right to the name of Rivers,” said Rachel, drawing herself up with her old dignity, like a little queen. “My brother is inquiring who we are. We never belonged to Lord Winterbourne.” “Your brother is inquiring? So!” said Miss Anastasia; “and he is perfectly right. Listen, child--tell him this from me--do you know what Atheling means? It means noble, illustrious, royally born. In the old Saxon days the princes were called Atheling. Tell your brother that Anastasia Rivers bids him bear this name.” This address entirely confused Rachel, who remained gazing at Miss Rivers blankly, unable to say anything. Marian stirred upon her chair with sudden eagerness, and put down her needlework, gazing also, but after quite a different fashion, in Miss Anastasia’s face. The old lady caught the look of both, but only replied to the last. “You are startled, are you, little beauty? Did you never hear the story of Margaret Atheling, who was an exile, and a saint, and a queen? My child, I should be very glad to make sure that you were a true Atheling too.” Marian was not to be diverted from her curiosity by any such observation. She cast a quick look from Miss Rivers to her mother, who was pondering over Charlie’s letter, and from Mrs Atheling to Agnes, who had not been startled by the strange words of Miss Anastasia; and suspicion, vague and unexplainable, began to dawn in Marian’s mind. “The autumn assizes begin to-day,” said Miss Anastasia with a little triumph; “too soon, as Mr Temple managed it, for your case to have a hearing; it must stand over till the spring now--six months--by that time, please God; we shall be ready for them. Agnes Atheling, how long is it since you began to be deaf and blind?”