OLD Lady Lydiard sat meditating by the fireside, with threeletters lying open on her lap.

Time had discolored the paper, and had turned the ink to abrownish hue. The letters were all addressed to the sameperson--"THE RT. HON. LORD LYDIARD"--and were all signed in thesame way--"Your affectionate cousin, James Tollmidge." Judged bythese specimens of his correspondence, Mr. Tollmidge must havepossessed one great merit as a letter-writer--the merit ofbrevity. He will weary nobody's patience, if he is allowed tohave a hearing. Let him, therefore, be permitted, in his ownhigh-flown way, to speak for himself.

_First Letter._--"My statement, as your Lordship requests, shallbe short and to the point. I was doing very well as aportrait-painter in the country; and I had a wife and children toconsider. Under the circumstances, if I had been left to decidefor myself, I should certainly have waited until I had saved alittle money before I ventured on the serious expense of taking ahouse and studio at the west end of London. Your Lordship, Ipositively declare, encouraged me to try the experiment withoutwaiting. And here I am, unknown and unemployed, a helpless artistlost in London--with a sick wife and hungry children, andbankruptcy staring me in the face. On whose shoulders does thisdreadful responsibility rest? On your Lordship's!"

_Second Letter._--"After a week's delay, you favor me, my Lord,with a curt reply. I can be equally curt on my side. Iindignantly deny that I or my wife ever presumed to see yourLordship's name as a means of recommendation to sitters withoutyour permission. Some enemy has slandered us. I claim as my rightto know the name of that enemy."

_Third (and last) Letter._--"Another week has passed--and not aword of answer has reached me from your Lordship. It matterslittle. I have employed the interval in making inquiries, and Ihave at last discovered the hostile influence which has estrangedyou from me. I have been, it seems, so unfortunate as to offendLady Lydiard (how, I cannot imagine); and the all-powerfulinfluence of this noble lady is now used against the strugglingartist who is united to you by the sacred ties of kindred. Be itso. I can fight my way upwards, my Lord, as other men have donebefore me. A day may yet come when the throng of carriageswaiting at the door of the fashionable portrait-painter willinclude her Ladyship's vehicle, and bring me the tardy expressionof her Ladyship's regret. I refer you, my Lord Lydiard, to thatday!"

Having read Mr. Tollmidge's formidable assertions relating toherself for the second time, Lady Lydiard's meditations came toan abrupt end. She rose, took the letters in both hands to tearthem up, hesitated, and threw them back in the cabinet drawer inwhich she had discovered them, among other papers that had notbeen arranged since Lord Lydiard's death.

"The idiot!" said her Ladyship, thinking of Mr. Tollmidge, "Inever even heard of him, in my husband's lifetime; I never evenknew that he was really related to Lord Lydiard, till I found hisletters. What is to be done next?"

She looked, as she put that question to herself, at an opennewspaper thrown on the table, which announced the death of "thataccomplished artist Mr. Tollmidge, related, it is said, to thelate well-known connoisseur, Lord Lydiard." In the next sentencethe writer of the obituary notice deplored the destitutecondition of Mrs. Tollmidge and her children, "thrown helpless onthe mercy of the world." Lady Lydiard stood by the table with hereyes on those lines, and saw but too plainly the direction inwhich they pointed--the direction of her check-book.

Turning towards the fireplace, she rang the bell. "I can donothing in this matter," she thought to herself, "until I knowwhether the report about Mrs. Tollmidge and her family is to bedepended on. Has Moody come back?" she asked, when the servantappeared at the door. "Moody" (otherwise her Ladyship's steward)had not come back. Lady Lydiard dismissed the subject of theartist's widow from further consideration until the stewardreturned, and gave her mind to a question of domestic interestwhich lay nearer to her heart. Her favorite dog had been ailingfor some time past, and no report of him had reached her thatmorning. She opened a door near the fireplace, which led, througha little corridor hung with rare prints, to her own boudoir."Isabel!" she called out, "how is Tommie?"

A fresh young voice answered from behind the curtain which closedthe further end of the corridor, "No better, my Lady."

A low growl followed the fresh young voice, and added (in dog'slanguage), "Much worse, my Lady--much worse!"

Lady Lydiard closed the door again, with a compassionate sigh forTommie, and walked slowly to and fro in her spaciousdrawing-room, waiting for the steward's return.

Accurately described, Lord Lydiard's widow was short and fat,and, in the matter of age, perilously near her sixtieth birthday.But it may be said, without paying a compliment, that she lookedyounger than her age by ten years at least. Her complexion was ofthat delicate pink tinge which is sometimes seen in old womenwith well-preserved constitutions. Her eyes (equally wellpreserved) were of that hard light blue color which wears well,and does not wash out when tried by the test of tears. Add tothis her short nose, her plump cheeks that set wrinkles atdefiance, her white hair dressed in stiff little curls; and, if adoll could grow old, Lady Lydiard, at sixty, would have been theliving image of that doll, taking life easily on its journeydownwards to the prettiest of tombs, in a burial-ground where themyrtles and roses grew all the year round.

These being her Ladyship's personal merits, impartial historymust acknowledge, on the list of her defects, a total want oftact and taste in her attire. The lapse of time since LordLydiard's death had left her at liberty to dress as she pleased.She arrayed her short, clumsy figure in colors that were far toobright for a woman of her ages. Her dresses, badly chosen as totheir hues, were perhaps not badly made, but were certainly badlyworn. Morally, as well as physically, it must be said of LadyLydiard that her outward side was her worst side. The anomaliesof her dress were matched by the anomalies of her character.There were moments when she felt and spoke as became a lady ofrank; and there were other moments when she felt and spoke asmight have become the cook in the kitchen. Beneath thesesuperficial inconsistencies, the great heart, the essentiallytrue and generous nature of the woman, only waited the sufficientoccasion to assert themselves. In the trivial intercourse ofsociety she was open to ridicule on every side of her. But when aserious emergency tried the metal of which she was really made,the people who were loudest in laughing at her stood aghast, andwondered what had become of the familiar companion of theireveryday lives.

Her Ladyship's promenade had lasted but a little while, when aman in black clothing presented himself noiselessly at the greatdoor which opened on the staircase. Lady Lydiard signed to himimpatiently to enter the room.

"I have been expecting you for some time, Moody," she said. "Youlook tired. Take a chair."

The man in black bowed respectfully, and took his seat.