genuine, definite response to the things she wrote! He seemed to have nothing to say from himself! He would assent and echo, but any response was always such as to make her doubt whether she had written plainly, invariably suggesting things of this world and not of the unseen, the world of thought and being. And when she mentioned work he always replied as if she meant an undefined something called _doing good_. He never doubted the failure of that foolish concert of ladies and gentlemen given to the riff-raff of London, had taught her that whether man be equal in the sight of God or not, any attempt on the part of their natural superiors to treat them as such could not but be disastrous. CHAPTER XXXIV. CALAMITY. One afternoon the post brought side by side with a letter from lord Gartley, one in a strange-looking cramped hand, which Mrs. Raymount recognized. "What can Sarah be writing about?" she said, a sudden foreboding of evil crossing her mind. "The water-rate perhaps," answered Hester, opening her own letter as she withdrew to read it. For she did not like to read Gartley's letters before her mother--not from shyness, but from shame: she would have liked ill to have her learn how poor her Gartley's utterances were upon paper. But ere she was six slow steps away, she turned at a cry from her mother. "Good heavens, what can it be? Something has happened to him!" said Mrs. Raymount. Her face was white almost as the paper she held. Hester put her arms round her. "Mother! mother! what is it?" she cried. "Anything about Corney?" "I thought something would come to stop it all. We were too happy!" she moaned, and began to tremble. "Come to papa, mamma dear," said Hester, frightened, but quiet. She stood as if fixed to the ground. Mr. Raymount's letters had been carried to him in the study, and one of them had put him into like perturbation. He was pacing up and down the room almost as white as his wife, but his pallor was that of rage. "The scoundrel!" he groaned, and seizing a chair hurled it against the wall. "I had the suspicion he was a mean dog! Now all the world will know it--and that he is my son! What have I done--what has my wife done, that we should give being to a vile hound like this? What is there in her or in me--?" There he paused, for he remembered: far back in the family some five generations or so, one had been hanged for forgery.