"One addressed in the lawyer's handwriting," she announced; "and
one from Randal. Which shall I open for you first?"

"Randal's letter, if you please."

Mrs. Presty handed it across the table. "Any news is a relief
from the dullness of this place," she said. "If there are no
secrets, Catherine, read it out."

There were no secrets on the first page.

Randal announced his arrival in London from the Continent, and
his intention of staying there for a while. He had met with a
friend (formerly an officer holding high rank in the Navy) whom
he was glad to see again--a rich man who used his wealth
admirably in the interest of his poor and helpless
fellow-creatures. A "Home," established on a new plan, was just
now engaging all his attention: he was devoting himself so
unremittingly to the founding of this institution that his doctor
predicted injury to his health at no distant date. If it was
possible to persuade him to take a holiday, Randal might return
to the Continent as the traveling-companion of his friend.

"This must be the man whom he first met at the club," Mrs. Presty
remarked. "Well, Catherine, I suppose there is some more of it.
What's the matter? Bad news?"

"Something that I wish Randal had not written. Read it
yourself--and don't talk of it afterward."