Never did a frivolous letter give more serious thought, nor bring gloomier reflections, than did this epistle to Kate Dalton. Her mind dwelt far less on the paragraph which concerned her own future than on that which spoke of George,--his devoted affection and his enduring sorrow! And so it was true that he loved her! He had even confided the avowal to another, and asked for aid and counsel. Why had he then concealed it from herself? Was the fault hers? Had her own conduct been the reason? Had her encouragement of any other estranged him, or was the teaching of the society in which she moved the reason? Poor fellow! how unfairly had she treated him,----even to that very last incident of their last meeting!--and now they were to meet no more! No, death itself could not more effectually separate them than did space and destiny. Even this she felt to be better, far better, than the chances of renewed intimacy in the world. Lady Hester had not told her why she had never divulged her secret; still less to what end she revealed it now, when the knowledge must be only misery. The mention of Norwood, and the vague half-threat connected with his name, gave her but little uneasiness, since her mind had but space for one absorbing thought,--George loved her! There was the sum of every reflection; and all the world around her, in its splendor or its brilliancy, the tortuous paths of political intrigue, the quiet byways of home-affection, the present and the future, were all as nothing when weighed against this one thought. If her first impression had been to blame Lady Hester for revealing the secret, her second was to thank her with her whole heart. She remembered D'Esmonde, too, and the reasonings by which he accompanied the delivery of the letter; and she felt that this consciousness was a blessing of which no vicissitude could rob her,--that come what might of disappointment or sorrow in life, here, at least, in her heart of hearts, was one hoarded treasure to compensate for all. If there were but one to whom she could confide her secret, with whom she could talk over her sorrow, she thought that she would be contented. To Nelly she dared not; to Frank she could not speak of it; what, then, of Nina? Alas! it was no longer a secret to _her!_ Nina had seen the picture, and although nothing in her manner betrayed the slightest consciousness, Kate knew her too well not to feel herself in her power.