"No, no! I can't! I won't! I hate it. I hate her, and all—all—belonging to her! I never want to see or hear of her again. And I won't stay. I see you don't want your legacy, and I'll go at once. I have ten dollars, I can live—"
"Why, there's some mistake, little girl. This is from no 'her,' but—a message from the dead."
The sudden break in the quiet old voice touched the listener more than the words, and she mechanically took the letter as she repeated:
"A message from the dead? What can you mean?"
"Read it and see."
Then Katharine read what her idolized father had written many months before, when the knowledge of his own approaching death had come to him; and it seemed to her that it was his own voice saying:
"Dear Aunt Eunice:—For dear you are, notwithstanding all these years of silence, during which your wild little lad has grown into a busy, care-burdened man. That you heard of my first marriage, and my wife's early death, leaving me with one little girl—your legacy—I know; because that all happened before the habit of our correspondence lapsed. But you may not know that two years ago I married again, a widow with four little sons; and though she has been the best of wives to me, she and my darling Katharine have not been happy together. Kate is a passionate, self-willed, but great-hearted child, so full of romantically generous impulses that I long ago nicknamed her my 'Kitty Quixote.' Her stepmother's nature and temperament are of quite another mold; and knowing what I have just learned concerning my own health, I foresee nothing but misery for these two, should they be left to live together without my presence.
"So, since my motherless daughter is my most precious possession and you have been my most devoted friend, I find it the most natural thing in the world to bequeath my treasure to my friend. If, for any reason unknown to me, you cannot accept my legacy I have made other arrangements for Katharine's future, which you can learn by applying to my lawyers, Messrs. Brown and Brown, Blank Street, New York.
"My wife knows of this letter, and we have arranged that after my death, should it occur, Kate is to remain with her for six months, as a final test of their ability to live happily together, and for the benefit of the schools in this city. At the end of that time, if these two well-meaning but uncongenial people decide that it is wisest to part, 'Kitty Quixote' will be sent to you, to do with as you see fit. In any case, she will be no pecuniary charge to any one; her own mother's little fortune, with such a portion of mine as is justly hers, being all-sufficient for ordinary needs.
"In loving remembrance of my boyhood, made happy by your care, and in firm reliance upon your friendship, your troublesome John bids you farewell."
Katharine had expected to find the sealed letter she had been commissioned to deliver to Miss Maitland but a complaining missive from her stepmother, setting forth the girl's faults and failures with that accuracy of detail so characteristic of the "second Mrs. John." That lady's handwriting upon the envelope had helped her to this impression, yet so honest was she that she had not once thought of protesting or refusing to deliver it. The revulsion of feeling was now so strong that she could not restrain her tears, nor the impulse to throw herself headlong upon Aunt Eunice, crying wildly:
"Oh, it's all true! But he loved me, my father loved me, bad as I am! And for his sake I wish—I wish I could be good. So folks, his folks, or—or anybody could stand it to live with me! But I can't. I've tried. I've tried ever so hard, yet the goodness gets down below and the badness stays on top, and then things go—smash!"
Aunt Eunice waited a moment, then replaced Katharine in her chair, thinking what a child she still seemed, despite her fourteen years and her city training. Also, recalling with a thrill of pride that she herself, at fourteen years, had been the head of her own father's widowed home and a woman, by contrast. "Though I was reared in Marsden," she complacently reflected, as she said:
"I should be glad to hear whatever you choose to tell me, my dear, of your life. Especially, what caused the final break between you and Mrs. Maitland."
"Why, it wasn't badness at all, that time! It was meant in kindness. Some other girls and I had fixed up a sort of house-picnic for washer-woman Biddy's children, who were all down with the measles, and just to amuse them I took stepmother's boys, the four young Snowballs—haven't they the absurdest name?—along; and she—she didn't like it. She said things. That I'd wilfully exposed them to danger, though I ought to be as careful of them as if they were my real brothers. And there I was trying to be, only she didn't understand. Then, another day, not long before, I coaxed some big boys who have a naphtha-launch to give the 'Balls a sail on it down the bay. The thing happened to explode, and, though nobody was hurt, she went on just terrible because I'd taken the children without asking her. How could I ask her when she was off shopping, or somewhere, just at the very moment the idea popped into my head? And nothing befell the little fellows except getting their clothes wet, and they always needed washing, anyway. The nice part of it was that they were scared into behaving themselves as they should for a whole week afterward, and she might have been pleased. But it was always like that. I'd have perfectly lovely plans for making everybody happy, all around, and they'd all end just the other way. So here I am. Mrs. John has cast me off; do you accept me?"
"First, let me ask if you were accustomed to speak of your father's wife in that manner?"
The girl was surprised by the other's tone, yet promptly answered: "Certainly. Everybody amongst father's artist friends called her either 'the second Mrs. John,' or 'Stepmother.' Either one it happened. Why?"
"It was most disrespectful."
At this uncompromising reply, Kate stared, exclaiming: "Why, you're a truth-teller yourself, aren't you?"
"I am. Did you not suppose so?" returned Miss Maitland, amused.
"Well, you see, I've been told you were very agreeable, and most of the really agreeable people I know lie like the mischief."
"Katharine!"
"Fact. And I've got into more scrapes for telling the truth than for any other thing I've done, except being kind to the little Snowballs. But—hark! What's that? Punch—Punch—You flippety-cap woman! Stop! Stop! Stop!"
An eruptive, agonized bark from the hall sent the girl thither at a bound, while Miss Eunice hastily followed, anxiously crying: "Philip! Sir Philip Sidney!"
CHAPTER II.
MASTER MONTGOMERY STURTEVANT
Wildly beating the air with a long-handled broom, her cap-frills flying, her spectacles awry, the Widow Sprigg was vainly endeavoring to restore peace between Punch, the newcomer, and Sir Philip Sidney, the venerable Angora cat which had hitherto "ruled the roost."
The pug, with a native curiosity almost as great as Susanna's own, had slipped from the sitting-room unobserved and had wandered to the warm kitchen where Sir Philip lay asleep on his cushion, unmindful of interlopers till an ugly black muzzle was poked into his ribs, and he found his natural enemy coolly ruffling his silken fur.
Until then, Miss Eunice had boasted of her pet that he was as like his famous namesake as it was possible for any animal to