“But two of these characters bear any affinity to you, my dear. I cannot fancy any similitude between the tender and fiery Marguerite—that ‘falcon-hearted dove,’ or her haughty and remorseless namesake of Anjou, and my grave, gentle Catherine. But the high and holy enthusiasm irradiating Joan’s face, and the noble resignation of Lady Russel’s countenance, suit your striking features very well. But I am talking like a mediocre stage critic. Captain Clifton has a very high opinion, of you, my Catherine. Pray try to merit it, my dear girl!” concluded the lady, with a little pardonable motherly pride. Kate Kavanagh looked down, and fingered the pens and wafers, for she felt the lady’s eyes gazing through and through her—reading her very soul. “By the way, Catherine, have you seen Captain Clifton’s last work of art?” “No, madam.” (I wonder why she calls him “Captain Clifton” to _me_—she never did so before, thought Kate.) “It is a highly finished miniature of Miss Clifton, painted on ivory. He had it set in a plain gold locket, and has taken it away with him. I saw him hang it around his neck, and lay it near his heart.” Catherine honestly believed that she was glad to hear this, for it seemed one more stay to keep her thoughts right. “And that, Catherine, is one reason among many others I have, for knowing his indestructible love for Carolyn. And that is why I feel no hesitation in having this letter written, to end this foolish quarrel, and to restore peace to these two unhappy young people,” said Mrs. Clifton, looking, Catherine thought, very strangely at her—_so_ strangely, that the maiden felt her cheeks burn with a vague sense of humiliation. She asked herself—Could Mrs. Clifton have read what had been passing in her mind? Well! if so—that was another band to bind her thoughts to the right. “Now, then, to your task, my child. You will find paper in Captain Clifton’s portfolio.” She spoke gently as ever to Kate, but still called her son “Captain Clifton,” as if to widen the distance between them. Kate felt troubled at this, and then took herself to task for a state of mind so morbidly acute to impressions, that she noticed everything, even that trifle. She searched and found the writing materials in the portfolio, and went to work and wrote, from Mrs. Clifton’s dictation, a letter, full of gentle rebuke, and kind, motherly counsel, to Archer Clifton. And all to the end that he should write immediately, and reconcile himself to Carolyn, who was extremely ill, and whom his mother felt assured, she said, that he must be most anxious to propitiate. The letter was sealed and dispatched, and the lady, thoroughly worn out, and leaning upon the arm of Catherine, sought her own bed-chamber.