Hugo hesitated for a moment.

"I have made my decision," he said at last, in a firm voice, "and it is one that I know I shall never have cause to repent. Aunt Margaret, I accept your kind--your generous--offer, and I will be to you as a son."

He had prepared his little speech so carefully that it scarcely sounded artificial when it issued from those curved, beautiful lips, and was emphasised by the liquid softness of his Southern eyes.

CHAPTER XIX.

A LOST LETTER.

Hugo's visit to the Herons was paid rather late in the afternoon, and he, therefore, had the full benefit of the whole family party, as each member of it dropped in to tea. Mrs. Heron's old habits still re-asserted themselves, in spite of the slight check imposed on her by the remembrance that the house belonged to Elizabeth, that the many new luxuries and comforts, including freedom from debt, had come from Elizabeth's purse, and that Elizabeth, although she chose to abdicate her power, was really the sovereign of Strathleckie. But Elizabeth arrogated so little to herself, and was so wonderfully content to be second in the house, that Mrs. Heron was apt to forget the facts of the case, and to act as if she were mistress as much as she had ever been in the untidy dwelling in Gower-street.

As regarded the matter of tidiness, Elizabeth had made reforms. There were now many more servants than there had been in Gower-street, and the drawing-room could not present quite the same look of chaos as had formerly prevailed there. But Elizabeth knew the ways of the household too well to expect that Mr. Heron's paint-brushes, Mrs. Heron's novels, and the children's toys would not be found in every quarter of the house; it was as much as she could do to select rooms that were intended to fill the purposes of studio, boudoir, and nursery; she could not make her relations confine themselves and their occupations to their respective apartments.

She had had a great struggle with her uncle before the present state of affairs came about. He had roused himself sufficiently to protest against making use of her money and not giving her, as he said, her proper position; but Elizabeth's determined will overcame all his objections. "I never wanted this money," she said to him; "I think it a burden. The only way in which I can enjoy it is by making life a little easier to other people. And you have the first claim--you and my cousins; because you took me in and were good to me when I was a little, friendless orphan of twelve years old. So, now that I have the chance, you must come and stay with me in my house and keep me from feeling lonely, and then I shall be able to think that my wealth is doing good to somebody beside myself. You make me feel as if I were a stranger, and not one of yourselves, when you object to my doing things for you. Would you mind taking gifts from Kitty? And am I so much less dear to you than Kitty? You used to tell me that I was like a daughter to you. Let me be your daughter still."

Mr. Heron found it difficult to make protests in the face of these arguments; and Mrs. Heron slid gracefully into the arrangement without any protest at all. Kitty's objections were easily overcome; and the children thought it perfectly natural that their cousin should share her good gifts with them, in the same way that, when she was younger, she divided with them the toys and sweeties that kind friends bestowed upon her.

Therefore, when Hugo called at Strathleckie, he was struck with the fact that it was Mrs. Heron, and not Elizabeth, who acted as his hostess. It needed all his knowledge of the circumstances and history of the family to convince himself that the house did not belong to Alfred Heron, the artist, and that the stately girl in a plain, black dress, who poured out the tea, was the real mistress of the house. She acted very much as though she were a dependent, or at most an elder daughter, in the same position as little Kitty, who assumed no airs of authority over anybody or anything.

Hugo admired Elizabeth, as he admired beautiful women everywhere; but he was not interested in her. Mentally he called her fool for not adopting her right station and spending her money in her own way. She was too grave for him. He was more at his ease with Kitty.

Rupert Vivian's message--if it could be called a message--was given lightly and carelessly enough, but Hugo had the satisfaction of seeing the colour flash all over Miss Heron's little _mignonne_ face as he listened to Mrs. Heron's languid reply.

"Dear me! and is that old relative in Wales really dying? Mr. Vivian has always made periodical excursions into Wales ever since I knew him.

Well, I wondered why he did not write to say that he was coming. It was an understood thing that he should stay with us as soon as we returned from Italy, and I was surprised to hear nothing from him. Were not you, Kitty?"

"No, I was not at all surprised," said Kitty, rather sharply.

"I had a commission to execute for my friend," said Hugo, turning a little towards her. "Mr. Vivian asked me to take charge of a parcel, and to place it in your own hands; he was afraid that it would be broken if it went by post. He told me that it was a little birthday remembrance."

He laid the parcel on a table beside the girl. He noticed that her colour varied, but that she did not speak. Mrs. Heron's voice filled the pause.

"How kind of you to bring it, Mr. Luttrell! Mr. Vivian always remembers our birthdays; especially Kitty's. Does he not, Kitty?"

"Not mine especially," said Kitty, frowning. She looked at the box as if she did not care to open it.

"Do let us see what it is," pursued Mrs. Heron. "Mr. Vivian has such exquisite taste! Shall we open the box, Kitty?"

"If you like," returned Kitty. "Here is a pair of scissors."

"Oh, we could not think of opening your box for you; open it yourself, dear. Make haste; we are all quite curious, are we not, Mr. Luttrell?"

Mr. Luttrell smiled a little, and toyed with his tea-spoon; his eyes were fixed questioningly on Kitty's mutinous face, with its down-dropped, curling lashes and pouting rose-leaf lips. He felt more curiosity respecting the contents of that little box than he cared to show.

She opened it at last, slowly and reluctantly, as it seemed to him, and took out of a nest of pink cotton-wool a string of filagree silver beads. They were very delicately worked, and there was some ground for Vivian's fear that they might get injured in the post, for their beauty was very great. Mrs. Heron went into ecstasies over the gift. It was accompanied merely by a card, on which a few words were written: "For Miss Heron's birthday, with compliments and good wishes from Rupert Vivian." Kitty read the inscription; her lip curled, but she still kept silence. Hugo thought that her eye rested with some complacency upon the silver beads; but she did not express a tithe of the pleasure and surprise which flowed so readily from Mrs. Heron's fluent tongue.

"Don't you like them, Kitty?" asked an inconvenient younger brother who had entered the room.

"They are very pretty," said Kitty.

"Not so pretty as the ornament he sent you last year," said Harry. "But it's very jolly of him to send such nice things every birthday, ain't it?"

"Yes, he is very kind," Kitty answered, with a shy sort of stiffness, which seemed to show that she could well dispense with his kindness.

Hugo laughed to himself, and pictured Vivian's discomfiture if he had seen the reception of his present. He changed the subject.

"Have you been long in Scotland, Miss Murray?"

"For a fortnight only. We came rather suddenly, hearing that the tenant had left this house. We expected him to stay for some time longer."

"It is fortunate for us that Strathleckie happened to fall vacant," said Hugo, gravely.

"Do you know, Betty," said one of the boys at that moment, "that Mr.

Stretton says he has been in Scotland before, and knows this part of the country very well?"

"Yes, he told me so."

"Mr. Stretton is our tutor," said Harry, kindly explaining his remark to the visitor. "He only came yesterday morning. He had a holiday when we came here; and so had we."

"I presume that you like holidays," said Hugo, caressing the silky moustache that was just covering his upper lip, and smiling at the child, with a notion that he was making himself pleasant to the ladies of the party by doing so.

"I liked holidays before Mr. Stretton came to us," said Harry. "But I don't mind lessons half so much now. He teaches in such a jolly sort of way."

"Mr. Stretton is a favourite," remarked Hugo, looking at the mother.

"Such a clever man!" sighed Mrs. Heron. "So kind to the children! We met him in Italy."

"I think I saw him at the station yesterday. He has grey hair?"

"Yes, but he's quite young," interposed Harry, indignantly. "He isn't thirty; I asked him. He had a brain fever, and it turned his hair grey; he told me so."

"It has a very striking effect," said Mrs. Heron, languidly. "He has a fine face--my husband says a beautiful face--and framed in that grey hair----I wish you could see him, Mr. Luttrell, but he is so shy that it seems impossible to drag him out of his own particular den."

"So very shy, is he?" thought Hugo to himself. "I wonder where I have seen him. I am sure I have seen him before, and I am sure that he knew me. Well, I must wait. I suppose I shall meet him again in the course of time."

He took his leave, remembering that he had already out-stayed the conventional limits of a call; and he was pleased when Mrs. Heron showed some warmth of interest in his future movements, and expressed a wish to see him again very soon. Her words showed either ignorance or languid neglect of the usages of society, but they did not offend him. He wanted to come again. He wanted to see more of Kitty.

He had ridden from Strathleckie to Netherglen, and he paced his horse slowly along the solitary road which he had to traverse on his way homewards. The beautiful autumn tints and the golden haze that filled the air had no attractions for him. But it was pleasant to him to be away from Mrs. Luttrell; and he wanted a little space of time in which to meditate upon his future course of action. He had seen the woman whom his aunt wished him to marry. Well, she was handsome enough; she was rich; she would look well at the head of his table, ruling over his household, managing his affairs and her own. But he would rather that it had been Kitty.

At this point he brought his horse to a sudden standstill. Before him, leaning over a gate with his back to the road, he saw a man whom he recognised at once. It was Mr. Stretton, the tutor. He had taken off his hat, and his grey hair looked very remarkable upon his youthful figure.

Hugo walked his horse slowly forward, but the beat of the animal's feet on the hard road aroused the tutor from his reverie. He glanced round, saw Hugo approaching, and then, without haste, but without hesitation, quietly opened the gate, and made his way into the field.

Hugo stopped again, and watched him as he crossed the field. He was very curious concerning this stranger. He felt as if he ought to recognise him, and he could not imagine why.

Mr. Stretton was almost out of sight, and Hugo was just turning away, when his eye fell upon a piece of white paper on the ground beside the gate. It looked like a letter. Had the tutor dropped it as he loitered in the road? Hugo was off his horse instantly, and had the paper in his hand. It was a letter written on thin, foreign paper, in a small, neat, foreign hand; it was addressed to Mr. John Stretton, and it was written in Italian.