Sylvia saw with the eyes of her mind the ruins, though her real eyes saw nothing but two lines, meant to be upright, joined together by a wild zig-zag, and with some peaked scrabbles and round whirls intended for smoke. Then Kate’s ready pencil portrayed the family, as jagged in their drapery as the flames and presently Lady Ethelinda appeared before a counter (such a counter! sloping like a desk in the attempt at perspective, but it conveniently concealed the shopman’s legs,) buying very peculiar garments for the sufferers. Another scene in which she was presenting them followed, Sylvia looking on, and making suggestions; for in fact there was no quiet pastime more relished by the two cousins than drawing stories, as they called it, and most of their pence went in paper for that purpose.

“Lady Ethelinda had a whole ream of paper to draw on!” were the words pronounced in Kate’s shrill key of eagerness, just as the long lost Mary and her father opened the door.

“Indeed!” said Mr. Wardour, a tall, grave-looking man; “and who is Lady Ethelinda!”

“O Papa, it’s just a story I was drawing,” said Kate, half eager, half ashamed.

“We have done all the lessons we could, indeed we have—” began Sylvia; “my music and our French grammar, and—”

“Yes, I know,” said Mary; and she paused, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable, so that Sylvia stood in suspense and wonder.

“And so my little Kate likes thinking of Lady—Lady Etheldredas,” said Mr. Wardour rather musingly; but Kate was too much pleased at his giving any sort of heed to her performances to note the manner, and needed no more encouragement to set her tongue off.

“Lady Ethelinda, Papa. She is a very grand rich lady, though she is a little girl: and see there, she is giving presents to all her cousins; and there she is buying new clothes for the orphans that were burnt out; and there she is building a school for them.”

Kate suddenly stopped, for Mr. Wardour sat down, drew her between his knees, took both her hands into one of his, and looked earnestly into her face, so gravely that she grew frightened, and looking appealingly up, cried out, “O Mary, Mary! have I been naughty?”

“No, my dear,” said Mr. Wardour; “but we have heard a very strange piece of news about you, and I am very anxious as to whether it may turn out for your happiness.”

Kate stood still and looked at him, wishing he would speak faster. Could her great-uncle in India be come home, and want her to make him a visit in London? How delightful! If it had been anybody but Papa, she would have said, “Go on.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Wardour at last, “you know that your cousin, Lord Caergwent, was killed by an accident last week.”

“Yes, I know,” said Kate; “that was why Mary made me put this black braid on my frock; and a very horrid job it was to do—it made my fingers so sore.”

“I did not know till this morning that his death would make any other difference to you,” continued Mr. Wardour. “I thought the title went to heirs-male, and that Colonel Umfraville was the present earl; but, my little Katharine, I find that it is ordained that you should have this great responsibility.”

“What, you thought it was the Salic law?” said Kate, going on with one part of his speech, and not quite attending to the other.

“Something like it; only that it is not the English term for it,” said Mr. Wardour, half smiling. “As your grandfather was the elder son, the title and property come to you.”

Kate did not look at him, but appeared intent on the marks of the needle on the end of her forefinger, holding down her head.

Sylvia, however, seemed to jump in her very skin, and opening her eyes, cried out, “The title! Then Kate is—is—oh, what is a she-earl called?”

“A countess,” said Mr. Wardour, with a smile, but rather sadly. “Our little Kate is Countess of Caergwent.”

“My dear Sylvia!” exclaimed Mary in amazement; for Sylvia, like an India-rubber ball, had bounded sheer over the little arm-chair by which she was standing.

But there her father’s look and uplifted finger kept her still and silent. He wanted to give Kate time to understand what he had said.

“Countess of Caergwent,” she repeated; “that’s not so pretty as if I were Lady Katharine.”

“The sound does not matter much,” said Mary. “You will always be Katharine to those that love you best. And oh!—” Mary stopped short, her eyes full of tears.

Kate looked up at her, astonished. “Are you sorry, Mary?” she asked, a little hurt.

“We are all sorry to lose our little Kate,” said Mr. Wardour.

“Lose me, Papa!” cried Kate, clinging to him, as the children scarcely ever did, for he seldom made many caresses; “Oh no, never! Doesn’t Caergwent Castle belong to me? Then you must all come and live with me there; and you shall have lots of big books, Papa; and we will have a pony-carriage for Mary, and ponies for Sylvia and Charlie and me, and—”

Kate either ran herself down, or saw that the melancholy look on Mr. Wardour’s face rather deepened than lessened, for she stopped short.

“My dear,” he said, “you and I have both other duties.”

“Oh, but if I built a church! I dare say there are people at Caergwent as poor as they are here. Couldn’t we build a church, and you mind them, Papa?”

“My little Katharine, you have yet to understand that ‘the heir, so long as he is a child, differeth in nothing from a servant, but is under tutors and governors.’ You will not have any power over yourself or your property till you are twenty-one.”

“But you are my tutor and my governor, and my spiritual pastor and master,” said Kate. “I always say so whenever Mary asks us questions about our duty to our neighbour.”

“I have been so hitherto,” said Mr. Wardour, setting her on his knee; “but I see I must explain a good deal to you. It is the business of a court in London, that is called the Court of Chancery, to provide that proper care is taken of young heirs and heiresses and their estates, if no one have been appointed by their parents to do so; and it is this court that must settle what is to become of you.”

“And why won’t it settle that I may live with my own papa and brothers and sisters?”

“Because, Kate, you must be brought up in a way to fit your station; and my children must be brought up in a way to fit theirs. And besides,” he added more sadly, “nobody that could help it would leave a girl to be brought up in a household without a mother.”

Kate’s heart said directly, that as she could never again have a mother, her dear Mary must be better than a stranger; but somehow any reference to the sorrow of the household always made her anxious to get away from the subject, so she looked at her finger again, and asked, “Then am I to live up in this Court of Chances?”

“Not exactly,” said Mr. Wardour. “Your two aunts in London, Lady Barbara and Lady Jane Umfraville, are kind enough to offer to take charge of you. Here is a letter that they sent inclosed for you.”

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