in the hotel, where there seemed to be nearly every other kind of fellow-creature.  At the end of the first week she had acquaintance of as many nationalities as she could reach in their native or acquired English, in all the stages of haughty toleration, vivid intimacy, and cold exhaustion.  She had a faculty for getting through with people, or of ceasing to have any use for them, which was perhaps her best safeguard in her adventurous flirting; while the simple aliens were still in the full tide of fancied success, Lottie was sick of them all, and deep in an indiscriminate correspondence with her young men in Tuskingum.

The letters which she had invited from these while still in New York arrived with the first of those readdressed from the judge’s London banker.  She had more letters than all the rest of the family together, and counted a half-dozen against a poor two for her sister.  Mrs. Kenton cared nothing about Lottie’s letters, but she was silently uneasy about the two that Ellen carelessly took.  She wondered who could be writing to Ellen, especially in a cover bearing a handwriting altogether strange to her.

“It isn’t from Bittridge, at any rate,” she said to her husband, in the speculation which she made him share.  “I am always dreading to have her find out what Richard did.  It would spoil everything, I’m afraid, and now everything is going so well.  I do wish Richard hadn’t, though, of course, he did it for the best.  Who do you think has been writing to her?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I suppose she will tell me after a while.  I don’t like to seem to be following her up.  One was from Bessie Pearl, I think.”

Ellen did not speak of her letters to her mother, and after waiting a day or two, Mrs. Kenton could not refrain from asking her.

“Oh, I forgot,” said Ellen.  “I haven’t read them yet.”

“Haven’t read them!” said Mrs. Kenton.  Then, after reflection, she added, “You are a strange girl, Ellen,” and did not venture to say more.

“I suppose I thought I should have to answer them, and that made me careless.  But I will read them.”  Her mother was silent, and presently Ellen added:  “I hate to think of the past.  Don’t you, momma?”

“It is certainly very pleasant here,” said Mrs. Kenton, cautiously.  “You’re enjoying yourself—­I mean, you seem to be getting so much stronger.”

“Why, momma, why do you talk as if I had been sick?” Ellen asked.

“I mean you’re so much interested.”

“Don’t I go about everywhere, like anybody?” Ellen pursued, ignoring her explanation.

“Yes, you certainly do.  Mr. Breckon seems to like going about.”