Meanwhile Catherine had spent a miserable day. She had lain awake most of the previous night, planning a reconciliation with her aunt; but towards morning she had fallen asleep, and did not wake till the maid entered her room at nine o’clock. Her aunt had gone, had taken the 7.30 train to London, they said. At first Catherine had wild thoughts of following her thither; she was not in a fit state of health to travel alone, but ignorance of her destination was a hopeless obstacle. So after spending the morning in vain attempts to read and practise, the girl set out for the station, where she met every down train that afternoon. Her patience was at length rewarded by the appearance of her aunt, looking so pale and tired that Catherine was seized with sudden alarm. She saw that Miss West was almost too much exhausted to speak, so, hurrying her into the carriage, she drove quickly home, and persuaded her to go to bed at once. Little was said on either side, but the kisses that were exchanged as her niece left her for the night satisfied Catherine that she was forgiven. But the exertion and excitement had been too much for Aunt Cicely. There was a sudden alarm in the night, the sound of hushed and hasty footsteps on the stairs, a hurried consultation between Catherine and the housekeeper. The former stood by the bedside, holding her aunt’s hand, and feeling as if her last earthly support were slipping from her. Then came the doctor, only to pronounce that the sufferer was past his skill; even if he had come earlier he could not have helped her. The grey September dawn found Catherine once more alone in the world, and feeling more desolate than ever. CHAPTER V. Catherine and her aunt’s lawyer were sitting together in the vast drawing-room with the big bay windows. He was an elderly man, with daughters of his own, and felt sorry for this girl, who had apparently no relations to look after her interests. And he shrank, too, from telling her the state of affairs. She had every reason to suppose that she was an heiress; if her aunt had died a day sooner that anticipation would have been realised; but now she had to be informed that she was left with only a small income, while the bulk of the property had gone to an entire stranger. “Your aunt,” said Mr. Cheadle, “was—er—a lady of some eccentricity. On your father’s death she made a will in your favour, and this remained unaltered till the day before her decease. But last Wednesday she called on me and made another in favour of this strange gentleman. Your legacy consists of various investments, which altogether produce an annual income of £150, enough to ensure your comfort, but a mere trifle compared to what you might have expected.” Catherine brought her mind with an effort to the business before her.