"Were you in time?" he asked, eagerly.

"Oh yes, quite. I saw the postman coming across the road to empty the
box as I was dropping the letter in."

"That's well. I will rest a bit now, and you can tell me what you
please. First, what have you come here for?"

It was an appalling question, and nothing but the simple truth occurred
to her as an answer. Indeed, some irresistible power seemed to compel
the reply, spoken very low and distinct, "I came here to beg."

The old man burst into a singularly unpleasant laugh. "Well, I like
candor. Pray what business have you to beg from me?"

"Because I know no one else to turn to--because, you are so near a
kinsman. Let me tell you about my mother." Simply and shortly she gave
the history of their life and struggles, of the coming of her brother's
young widow and orphans, of the disappointment of her mother's literary
expectations, of the present necessity. The quiver in her young voice,
the pathetic earnestness with which she told her story, the deep love
for her mother breathing through the recital, might well have moved a
heart of ordinary coldness, but it seemed to small impression on her
grim uncle.

"You come of a wasteful extravagant lot," he said, faintly, "if you are
what you represent yourself to be--of which there is no proof whatever.
How do I know you are the daughter of Frederic Liddell?"