Mrs. Georgia sought the garden, the open air, anywhere where she could breathe freely. When the storm in her bosom had subsided, and reason was again in the ascendant, she could have torn her hair and beat her breast, yea, and rent her garments with excess of chagrin, to think that she had so betrayed herself to Catherine. She did not fully believe that Catherine would repeat this scene where it could injure her, or anywhere, in fact. Still, she thought it safer to guard against such a contingency, and while _she herself_ still possessed the unshaken confidence and respect of Major Clifton, to impugn the conduct and character of Catherine, and thus forestall and invalidate any testimony she might hereafter give. She felt that she must proceed very cautiously. A plan of correspondence had been arranged with Major Clifton, previous to his departure. She soon began to receive long letters from him, filled with interesting descriptions of the countries through which he passed, the people whom he met, and philosophical comments upon both. And to these she replied in other letters, full of appreciation, admiration, gratitude, and breathing, besides, the highest, purest, most disinterested sentiments and opinions upon all the subjects of their correspondence. Into these letters, she gradually introduced the name of Catherine—carelessly, at first, as if she thought little about her, one way or the other,—as thus: “Catherine is with me still—she desires to be remembered;” then, in a second letter, by a slight line of praise, as though the girl was rather winning upon her, as—“Catherine is well. By the way, what a remarkably clever girl she is;” then, in another, with warmer panegyric, as though she really very much improved upon longer acquaintance, thus: “How can I ever thank you sufficiently for placing Catherine with me?” Next came high encomiums upon Catherine’s talents, in this wise: “Catherine has left me, and is with your mother, as no doubt the latter has written you. Apropos! What a mind that girl has! Did you ever observe?” And then, in a subsequent epistle, came an expression of wonder at the “diplomatic” character of Kate’s intellect, and an opinion that the writer really believed her thrown away in private life. And next, a cooler mention of the maiden, with the hint of a fear that she was gaining the mastery over Mrs. Clifton’s strong mind. Finally, after some months, she wrote thus, as if speaking frankly from a sense of duty, and at the cost of great pain: “I fear that I have been greatly deceived in my estimate of Catherine’s good principles. How shall I introduce what I am about to say to you? But you had best come home and see for yourself. For I know that your mother is in the power of as dangerous an intriguante as I ever heard of; and mind—she will influence Mrs. Clifton to disinherit her own son, and bequeath _her_ the farm at Hardbargain. That ‘Maria Teresa’ brow of hers meant something, after all.