"Unless nothing better should be found. Now, London is a dangerous place, full of pitfalls and traps, especially for the young and innocent. We are loth to lose thee, Kitty; we are afraid to let thee go. Nothing will do for Lady Levett but that thou remain with us and Nancy." This was a generous offer, indeed. Kitty's eyes filled with tears again, and while she stood trying to find words of gratitude, and to decline the offer so as not to appear churlish, madam herself came running up the stairs, in her garden hat and plain pinner, and fell to kissing and crying over the girl. Then she had to be told of the will and last commands. "To be sure," she said, "thy father's commands must be respected and obeyed. Yet I know not whether it would not be well to disobey them. Kitty, my dear, stay with us and be my daughter, all the same as Nancy. I do not ask thee to enter my service, or to receive wages, or to do work for me any other than a daughter may." Kitty shook her head again. She was truly grateful; there was no one so kind as her ladyship; but she must go to London as her father bade her. "Why," cried Sir Robert, "the child is right. Let her go. But if she is unhappy with her friends, or if she is in any trouble, let her know where to look for help." "There may be cousins," said madam, "who will find thee too pretty for their own faces, and would keep thee at home with the towels and dusters and napkins. I would not have our Kitty a Cinderella--though house-service is no disgrace to a gentlewoman. Or there may be manners and customs of the house that a young girl should disapprove. Or there may be harsh looks instead of kind words. If that is the case, Kitty, come back to us, who love thee well, and will receive thee with kisses and joy." Then they left her in the empty house, alone with Deborah, the house servant. She was looking over her father's books, and taking out one or two which she thought she might keep in memory of him (as if anything were needed) when she heard steps, and Deborah's voice inviting some one to enter. It was Harry Temple: he stood in the doorway, his hat in his hand, and under his arm a book. "I was meditating in the fields," he said, "what I should say to Kitty Pleydell, in consolation for her affliction. The learned Boethius----" "O Harry!" she cried, "do not talk to me of books. What can they say to comfort any one?" He smiled. Harry's smile showed how much he pitied people not so learned as himself. "The greatest men," he said, "have been comforted by books. Cicero, for instance.... Nay, Kitty, I will not quote Cicero. I came to say that I am sorry indeed to learn that we shall lose thee for a time." "Alas!" she said, "I must go. It is my father's order." "I am sure," he replied, "that you would not leave us for a lighter reason. You know our hearts, Kitty, and how we all love you."