“You think so now,” Mrs. Conway said with a smile.  “You won’t think so when you are in the army, but will find a little extra allowance or a tip now and then very welcome.”

“I dare say I shall, mother,” Ralph said, brightening.  “Anyhow, if the old gentleman—­that is to say, the gentleman—­takes it into his head to make me an allowance, it will take me off your hands, and I shall not be always feeling that I am an awful expense to you.  All right, mother.  I think I can promise that I will be on my best behavior, and will try hard to get on even with his sisters.  I wish he had asked Phil Landrey to go down with me.  Two fellows can get on anywhere.”

“I should have very little hope of your making a good impression if you went there with your friend Phil,” Mrs. Conway said, smiling.  “I can believe in your good conduct while you are alone, but I should have no hopes whatever of you if you and he were together.”

“But how am I to go, mother?  It seems such a tremendous way from here down into Dorsetshire.”

“I have not thought anything about it yet, Ralph; but probably Mr. Penfold will give some instructions as to your journey when he hears from me that you are coming.”

CHAPTER II.

A COUNTRY VISIT.

When Ralph had gone off to school again Mrs. Conway sat down to answer the letter—­by no means an easy task—­and she sat with the paper before her for a long time before she began.  At last, with an air of desperation, she dipped her pen into the ink and began: 

“My dear Herbert Penfold:  It is difficult to answer such a letter as yours—­to say all one feels without saying too much; to express the gratitude with which one is full, but of which one feels that you do not desire the expression.  First, a word as to the past.  Now that it is irreparable, why should I not speak freely?  We were the victims of a mistake!  You were misled respecting me.  I foolishly resented the line you took, failed to make sufficient allowances for your surroundings, and even doubted a love that seemed to me to be so easily shaken.  Thus my pride was, perhaps, as much responsible for what happened as your too easy credence of tales to my disadvantage.  At any rate, believe me that I have cherished no such feelings as those with which you credit me toward you.  Now that I know the truth, I can only regret that your life has been, as you say, spoiled, by what can but be called a fatal misunderstanding.

“Next, I must thank you, although you make no allusion to it in your letter, for your kindness during past years.  Of these, believe me, I never suspected that you were the author; and I need hardly say how deeply I have been touched at finding that the hand to which I and my boy owe so much is that of Herbert Penfold.  Of this I will say no more.  I leave you to picture my