"You speak almost as prettily as you write," he answered scornfully,
pulling a letter from his pocket.

"This is beyond me," thought I; for of course I knew it could be no
letter of mine. Besides, a glance told me that I had never set eyes
on the paper or handwriting before. I think my next remark showed
self-possession. "Would you be kind enough to explain?" I asked.

"I rather think that should be your business," said he; and faith, I
allowed the justice of that contention, awkward though it was. But
he went on, "It astonishes you, I dare say, to see this letter in my
hand?"

It did. I acknowledged as much with a bow.

He began to read in an affected mimicking voice, "_My ever-loved
Kate, since your worthy but wrong-headed father_--"

"Father!" It sounded like an echo. It came from the young lady,
who had sprung forward indignantly, and was holding out a hand for
the letter. "The servants! Have you not degraded me enough?"
She stamped her foot.

The old gentleman folded up the letter again, and gave it into her
hand with a cold bow. She was handing it to me--Oh, the unfathomable
depth of woman!--when he interfered.

"For your own delectation if you will, miss; but as your protector I
must ask you not to give it back."