"The wisest of plans A letter upsets,
The penny post bans
The wisest of plans
Tho' woman's tho' man's,
And then one regrets
The wisest of plans
A letter upsets."
 
 
About three weeks after the visit of Archie and his friend, Mrs. Belswin was seated on the fallen trunk of a tree in Thornstream Park, deeply over two letters lying on her lap. Around her the heavy of the trees in the morning air, above her the sun shot golden arrows from the blue sky, and below her feet the lush grass, starred with delicate woodland flowers, sloped gently down to a , the brown waters of which noisily over its smooth stones.
 
But Mrs. Belswin, with a frown on her face, paid no attention to these things, being occupied with disagreeable thoughts, by the letters aforesaid; and after a pause she took up one impatiently, in order to read it for the second time.
 
 
"Carissima Mia,
 
"Why have you not written to me for so long? Every day I say, 'She will send to me a letter,' and every day I find the postman comes not. This is not right conduct to him who adores thee, my Lucrezia, and there is fear in my heart that I may lose thee. I am now singing at the Theatre , in an opera comique called 'Sultana Fatima,' and they pay me well, as they should, seeing I leave the grand Italian Opera for this street music. But that my English is so good, I would not have been the chief here. It is not hard to sing, and I am content since I waste not my time and am near thee. But thou, oh my star adorable, must not stay long from him who hungers for thy smile. When does the illustrious husband come again? for I know that he will drive thee back to me, and we will go at once to my beautiful Italy. Send me a letter and say when thou come to me, or I swear that I will come to thee in the country, in order to thee again. Thou hast seen thy child those many months; now I will that thou should'st return. I wait thy answer saying thou wilt return, or I myself will behold thee in thy village. Cara signora, I kiss your hand,
 
"Thine unhappy
 
"Stephano."
 
 
When she had finished this, Mrs. Belswin let it fall on her lap, with a of her shoulders, and picked up the other letter, which consisted of two lines----
 
"Pethram returns in three weeks, so unless you want trouble you'd better clear out.--A. D."
 
"Had I?" said the reader, . "I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Dombrain. I'll leave this place when I choose. So Rupert Pethram is coming home, and I, if I please, can see him. Husband and wife will meet again after twenty years of separation. How dramatic the interview will be! I can well imagine it, and yet I am not sure it will take place. I cannot retain my position as chaperon to Kaituna if he is in the house. I cannot disguise myself, for Kaituna would ask the reason--besides, I'm too to act a part. If I go I part from my daughter for ever; if I stay, Rupert will certainly recognise me, and then he will force me to leave the house. What a terrible position!--to be driven away after a glimpse of paradise; and yet I can do nothing to help myself--positively nothing."
 
She stopped short, with a feeling of deep anger at her helplessness, but she did not attempt to disguise the truth from herself--she could do nothing. The law was on the side of her husband, and she could never hope to the position she had by her former folly. 'As to Stephano Ferrari----
 
"He'll do what he says," she muttered, glancing at the Italian's flowery letter. "If I don't go to him, he will come to me, and, with his hot foreign blood, may create a . I wouldn't mind for myself, but Kaituna--I must consider Kaituna. If I refuse to go with Stephano, he is quite the sort of man to tell her all, and that would exile me from my daughter more than anything else. Rupert would make me leave the house; Stephano would lose his temper at what he calls my obstinacy--I should not care; but if Kaituna knew that I--her mother--was alive, that I had lost my place in the world and become an outcast, she would scorn me--my own child! Oh, I could not bear that, it would kill me!"
 
With her face in her hands she rocked to and fro in an agony of grief, and when she recovered herself somewhat, her , haggard and worn, showed how bitterly she felt the position in which she was placed.
 
"If I could only die! I wish I could! Hell cannot be worse than the life I live now. I am near my child, yet dare not tell her I am her mother; but soon I shall have to go away, and be denied even the poor of being near her. If only I had the courage to kill myself! But there, I have the courage, and would die willingly, were it not for Kaituna. Oh, God! God! I have sinned deeply, but my punishment is very heavy--heavier than I can bear!"
 
She had risen to her feet, and was walking to and fro in the narrow space of the , swinging her arms in a very storm of grief. The mask she had worn for the last few weeks so carefully was now thrown aside, and she abandoned herself to her agony of despair in the most reckless manner. She wept, she cried, she , she flung herself on the ground--in fact, she gave herself up wholly to her mood of the moment. Truly the quiet English glade had never seen a stranger sight than that of this woman abandoning herself to transports of impotent fury.
 
"Why am I so helpless?" she cried furiously, lifting up her arms to the blue sky. "If I have sinned, I have been punished. For twenty years I have borne my punishment, but I can do so no longer. She is my child--mine--mine--mine! They cannot take her from me. I am her mother! God gave her to me, and man shall not take her away! I ............