Then she thought over the years he had been befriending her, and wondered what she should do about that.  Finally, being a sensible woman, she decided to do nothing.  Had she known it before, or learned the truth by other means, she would have refused absolutely to touch Herbert Penfold’s money; but it would be indeed a poor return for his kindness were she now, when he was ill and feeble, and was about to bestow still further benefits upon her, to refuse to permit him any longer to aid her.  She wished, as she read the letter over again, that he had expressed some desire to see her.  She should have liked to have thanked him in person, to have told him how grateful she felt for his care and kindness, to have taken his hand again if but for a minute.

But he had expressed no wish for a meeting, had never all these years made an effort to see her.  She could read in the wording of the letter that he had been principally deterred from making any attempt to see her by the feeling that he had entirely forfeited her regard, and had offended her beyond chance of forgiveness.  And had she been asked the day before she would doubtless have replied that she had no wish whatever ever again to meet Herbert Penfold; whereas now she felt almost aggrieved that he should express no wish to meet her, should have stayed away so long without making one effort to bring about reconciliation.

“Of all faults that a man can have,” she said pettishly, “I do not think there’s one so detestable as that of self-distrust.  Why could he not have said ten years ago, ’I behaved badly, Mary; I treated you abominably; but forgive me and forget.  I was not wholly to blame, except that I allowed others to come between us?’ If he had come and said that, we could at least have been good friends.  I have no patience with men who cannot stand up for themselves.  Now, how much shall I tell Ralph?” and she again read the letter through.

“Ralph,” she said when he came in to dinner, “you remember that letter I had this morning?”

“Yes, I know, mother; the one that made you turn so white.  You said it was from an old friend, though why a letter from an old friend should upset any one I can’t make out.  What was it about, mother?”

“Well, my boy, it contains a pleasant piece of news.  Mr. Penfold, that is the name of the writer, was a friend of my family.  He knew me long ago when we were young people, and at one time it seemed likely that we should be married.  However, as you know, that never took place.  However, it seems, as he says by his letter, that he has never altogether forgotten me, and he intends to help you on in life if you turn out as he would like to see you.  He wishes you to go down to stay with him when your holidays begin.”

“That sounds nice,” Ralph said; “and if he has got any boys about my own age it will be pleasant.”

“He has no children, Ralph.  He is what you may call an old bachelor, and lives with his sisters—­or, rather, they live with him.”