Kate looked guilty and bewildered, recovering herself by an effort, and answered, almost at random— “This is not letter paper, madam, it is Bristol board.” “Oh, well! there is writing paper in the other department of the desk, my child, get it out.” Kate examined the contents of the desk, and then replied— “There is no letter paper here, whatever, Mrs. Clifton.” “What are those?” “Only card boards and sketches, madam.” “Sketches. That is just like Archer, to keep his sketches in his writing desk. His writing material will no doubt be found in his portfolio. But let me see those sketches, Catherine; I have not seen them yet, and they will be something new to me—almost like a recent letter from Archer. I like to look over his drawings; they always mean something apart from their subject, as it seems to me. I often think his sketches form a running commentary, though an involuntary one, on his life and thoughts! Hand them to me, my child.” “These are only old historical subjects,” said Kate, with visible reluctance to produce them. “Pass them over to me, my dear. If their subjects are as old as the Chinese History of the Creation, they will nevertheless be eloquent to me of my son’s present mood—of the state of his heart, and the progress or the retrogression of his mind. You cannot imagine, Catherine, the anxious curiosity of a mother to catch furtive glimpses of the interior of that heart she cannot always enter, and which is often hidden, too, from its possessor! ‘We know not what manner of spirit we are of,’ Catherine. For instance, do you know your own heart or mind? In all hearts lie depths below depths, never known to the owner until some earthquake of sorrow, or of passion, throw them open to view! There are in all minds powers beyond powers of achievement or of endurance, unsuspected by their possessor until some emergency calls them into action! But give me the drawings, Kate, they will refresh me like a talk with Archer.” Catherine lifted them, _en masse_, and handed them to Mrs. Clifton, who took and examined each separately and leisurely. “Um-m-me,” she said, smiling gently, as she recognized their subjects:—“‘Marguerite of France, at the Siege of Damietta,’ ‘Joan of Arc, at Rheims,’ ‘Margaret of Anjou, at St. Albans,’ ‘Last interview of Lord and Lady Russel,’ and all these battle-axe heroines, wearing the likeness of my serious, domestic Catherine! In truth, Archer has put you through as many characters and costumes as though he designed you for a tragic actress, in the heaviest line.” Kate Kavanagh did not like that.