Mrs. Bertram rose slowly from her seat at the head of the board. "The post is later than ever," she remarked; "it is past the half-hour. I shall go myself and speak to Benjafield." She walked slowly out through the open window. She wore an evening dress of rusty black velvet with a long train. It gave her a very imposing appearance, and the effect of her evening dress and her handsome face and imperious manners were so overpowering that the old postman, as he hobbled toward her, had to mutter under his breath: "Don't forget your game leg, Benjafield, nor your wall eye, and don't you be tooken down nor beholden to nobody." "Why is the post so late?" inquired Mrs. Bertram. "It is more than half-past eight." "Eh!" exclaimed Benjafleld. "I asked why the post was so late." "Eh? I'm hard of hearing, your ladyship." He came a little nearer, and leered up in the most familiar way into the aristocratic face of Mrs. Bertram. "Intolerable old man," she muttered, aloud: "Take the letters from him, Catherine, and bring them here." Then raising her voice to a thin scream, she continued: "I shall write to the general post-office on this subject; it is quite intolerable that in any part of England Her Majesty's Post should be entrusted to incapable hands." Old Benjafield, fumbling in his bag, produced two letters which he presented to Catherine. He did so with a dubious, inquiring glance at her mother, again informed the company generally that he was hard of hearing, and hobbled away. One of the letters, addressed in a manly and dashing hand, was for Catherine. The other, also in manly but decidedly cramped writing, was addressed to Mrs. Bertram. She started when she saw the handwriting, instantly forgot old Benjafield, and disappeared into the house. When she was gone Mabel danced up to her sister's side, and looked over her shoulder at the thick envelope addressed in the manly hand. "Kate, it's from Loftie!" she exclaimed. "Yes, it's from Loftie," responded Catherine. "Let us come and sit under the elm-tree and read what he says, May." The girls seated themselves together on a rustic bench, tore open the thick letter, and acquainted themselves with its contents. "Dearest,--I'm coming home to-morrow night. _Must_ see the mater. Have got into a fresh scrape. Don't tell anyone but May--I mean about the scrape. "Your devoted brother, "LOFTUS." Catherine read this letter twice, once to herself, then aloud for Mabel's benefit. "Now, what's up?" exclaimed Mabel. "It must be very bad. He never calls you 'dearest;' unless it's awfully bad. Does he, Kitty?" "No," said Catherine. "Poor mother," she added then, and she gave a profound and most ungirlish sigh. "Why, Catherine, you have been grumbling at mother all day! You have been feeling so cross about her." "You never will understand, Mabel! I grumble at mother for her frettiness, but I love her, I pity her for her sorrows." Mabel looked full into her sister's face.