The arrival of this letter was a positive relief to Catherine. It gave her something to do and something to occupy her mind, and she had so much dreaded those quiet days spent alone in her rooms before the school opened again. Now there was no time for regret. With feverish energy she looked out her train in Bradshaw, despatched her trunks, had some lunch, and started out again on her travels. The journey took some time. St. John’s is a little watering-place on the south coast, almost suburban in character, so accessible is it from London, and with that peculiarly uninteresting and unfinished look distinctive of places that have been developed as a speculation. A bran new promenade and a flaunting “Kursaal” are its chief attractions, and at each end of the bay the giant scaffolding prophetic of some immense hotel or terrace projects its hideous outline between the sky and sea. Catherine, fresh from the magnificence of the Alps, shuddered as the train ran into the overcrowded little station. She collected her belongings and was about to call a cab when a man in livery touched his hat, and, asking her if she were not for Frampton House, opened the door of a brougham that stood waiting. Catherine got in, and realised for the first time how tired she was; but she did not have much time for reflection, for in a very few minutes the carriage drew up at a large house facing the sea. She was ushered into a dimly-lighted hall, up a broad flight of stairs, and soon found herself in a bedroom looking out over the promenade. She was slowly unfastening her jacket, trying to become accustomed to the sudden change in her surroundings, when the door opened and a little old lady walked in. She was decidedly below middle height, but her carriage and dress gave her a dignity that would hardly belong by right to one so small of stature. Her fine delicate features were framed in a mist of lace, and underneath the neatly-parted bands of silver hair her dark eyes flashed with a brilliance undimmed by age or suffering. But her face was lined and worn, and the tiny hand that she extended to her visitor was almost transparent. Catherine was surprised to find how firm was the grasp in which her own was taken; but she soon found that this mingled frailty and dignity were but an index to the woman’s whole character. An iron will within a tender frame, resolution fighting with femininity, this had been the tragedy of her life; even now the fatal disease with which she was struggling was kept at bay by sheer force of will.