One afternoon as they were walking down the hill together, she screwed up her courage and said: “Who is it you are writing to so constantly, Cara?” “No one in particular,” answered the girl, with a toss of her head. “But what a waste of time and energy!” Again she braced herself, determined to exercise an authority too long relaxed. “I think, dear, that I ought to know who is your correspondent.” “Why, Mum,” and Cara came to a standstill, “this is something _quite_ new! You’ve never asked such a thing before.” “But I believe I should have done so, Cara. Better late than never. I’m afraid, dear child, that I have been hitherto too slack, too busy with my work, to take a proper interest in your affairs.” “This is too funny!” cried Cara angrily; “that old Hesketh spy, has put you up to this.” “No--and that is no way to speak of her,” reproved Letty with surprising spirit; “and now I must insist on knowing who it is, that you have been writing to to-day?” “Oh, then, since you _insist_,” said Cara, putting her hand in the pocket of her coat, “here is my correspondence,” and she exhibited a letter addressed to, ‘Peter Robinson, Regent Street, London, W.’ “A man certainly, but a stranger to me.” (There was another letter remaining in her pocket, and this was inscribed to, ‘Hugo Blagdon, Esq., Sharsley Court, Yorks.’) Letty, as she received Peter Robinson’s letter, felt a little abashed. Could all the other suspicions have the same ending? Oh, could they?--if so what a heavy load would be lifted from her mind! “Yes, I see,” she assented, “you are sending for patterns; but surely you are not continually writing to shops?” “Why not? _You_ know best, why I have no English correspondence. The July sales are on, and one gets things for half of nothing, trimmings, stockings, gloves, scarves. Tomlin gave me the tip.” “Oh, did she?” murmured Letty, not a little daunted by Cara’s manner; then she resumed with an effort, “Cara, my dear, why will you not be more open with me, and confide in me, and tell me things? No one in the world, takes as much interest in you, or is as anxious for your happiness, as _I_ am.” The girl glanced slyly at the pretty, incredibly young-looking woman who was her mother; with her clear complexion, abundant hair, and slim figure, she might almost be a contemporary of her own! “What sort of things?” “Just the sort of things you tell your girl friends.” Cara broke out into an irrepressible shout of laughter,--laughter, in which there sounded a note of mockery or derision,--and Letty, with a heightened colour, added: “Frau Hurter has informed me, that you no longer go to the Baers--is this the case?” “Yes, I’ve had a terrific row with Berthe and her mother--horrible, bourgeois brutes!” “But you used to be so fond of Berthe--you’ve known one another nearly all your lives.”