The Letter of Credit

that?"

  Mr. Digby bowed his head. The lady folded her arms, and removed her eyes from his face. Her own face was a shade paler, yet immoveable. She sat as if lost in thought for several minutes; in a silence which Mr. Digby was determined this time he would not break.

  "What brought my sister to New York, Mr. Digby?" Mrs. Busby at length asked, stooping as she spoke to pick up a thread from the carpet at her feet.

  "I am afraid,--the difficulty of getting along at home, where she was."

  "Her husband was dead, I knew," said the lady. "I gave Eunice permission to go and occupy the old house, where we were brought up, and which by my father's will came to me; and as I knew she had not done that, I had no reason to suppose that she was not getting along comfortably. My sister was one of those people who will not take advice, Mr. Digby; who will go their own way, and whom nobody can help. She was here several months, then?"

  "More than that"

  "More? How much more?"

  "She came here before I had the pleasure of knowing her."

  "Did she tell you anything of her story?"

  "Something; and so I came, by a question or two, to find out that you were her sister."

  "Eunice separated herself from her family," Mrs. Busby said shortly; "and such people always in time come to feel their mistake, and then they charge the fault upon their family."

  "Mrs. Carpenter did not seem to me inclined to charge fault upon anybody. I never heard anything from her that shewed a censorious spirit."

  Mrs. Busby opened her lips, and pressed them a little closer together. Evidently she was minded to ask no more questions. Mr. Digby went on.

  "Mrs. Carpenter had a daughter--"

  "I know she had a daughter," Mrs. Busby said briskly. "Is she living?"

  "Certainly."

  "Pray, how old?"

  "About--I believe, about fifteen."

  "Where is she?"

  "She is here."

  "_Here!_ In whose care? and where is she?"

  "She is in my care. It is about her I wished to speak to you."

  "In _your_ care! But Mr. Southwode, that is very strange! How came my sister to leave her child in your care?"

  "She honoured me, I believe, with so much trust as to believe I would be a faithful guardian," Mr. Digby said, with his extremely composed gravity.

  "But was there nobody else?" said the lady, for a moment forgetting herself.

  "Nobody else, whom Mrs. Carpenter thought as competent, or as trustworthy," the young man said with the gleam of a smile.

  "Mr. Southwode, I cannot allow that for a moment," Mrs. Busby said with energy. "_I_ am the proper person to take charge of my sister's child, and if you please I will assume the charge immediately. Where is she? She ought to be under my roof."

  "It occurred to me, that if you were so inclined, your house would be the safest place for her; for the present at least."

  "For the present and for always," said the lady decidedly. "Who else should take care of her? Where can I find her, Mr. Southwode?"

  "Nowhere. I will bring her to you, if you will allow me."

  "Do you know the girl? do you know much of her, I mean?"

  "Something--" Mr. Digby easily assented.

  "And what is she, if you can tell?"

  "I do not know that I _can_ tell, what you will find her. Do you not think, Mrs. Busby, that a human character of any richness shews different sides of itself to different persons, as varying affinities call out corresponding developments?"

  "Then you call hers, a character of some richness?"

  "I suppose I implied as much."

  "And will you tell me what you have found her?"

  "Pardon me; that would be an injustice to her. You would naturally look to verify my impressions, and perhaps could not do it. It is unkind to praise or blame anybody beforehand to third persons. You make it impossible for the balance of judgment to swing clear."

  "She ought to come here at once. Will you bring her to-morrow?"

  "I think not to-morrow."

  "Why not? When, then?"

  "This is Thursday? Suppose we say, next week?"

  "Next week! That is waiting very long. Where is she? I will go to see her."

  "Quite unnecessary," said Mr. Digby rising. "As soon as she is ready, and I am ready, I will bring her; but not before Monday or Tuesday."

  "Mr. Southwode," said Mrs. Busby, with a mixture of suspicion and raillery in her look, which was but indifferently compounded, "if my niece were a few years older, I should begin to suspect that you had _reasons_ for being unwilling to put her out of your care."

  The young man met her eyes with the grave, careless composure which was habitual with him.

  "I _have_ reasons," he said. "And I am not going to put her 'out of my care.' I am only purposing to allow you, for the time being, a share in the care, Mrs. Busby. A trust that is given to me, I do not resign."

  The lady shut her lips a little tight.

  "What school is your daughter attending?" Mr. Southwode went on.

  "I am not sure where I shall send her this year. She has been going-- But I am thinking of making a change. I do not know yet where she will be."

  The gentleman remarked, that could be talked of another time; and took his leave. Every trace of smiles disappeared from Mrs. Busby's face as he closed the door behind him. She stepped to the window and drew down the linen shade where the sun was coming too brightly in; and then she stood for some minutes upon the hearth rug, grave and thoughtful, one eyebrow arched in meditation as society never saw it arched. Her concluding thought might be summed up thus:--"When she is under my care, my young gentleman, I think she will _not_ be under yours. Preposterous!"

  Mr. Digby had his thoughts too as he drove homeward. They will never get on together, he said to himself. It will not be happy for Rotha, nor easy. And yet--it is the best thing I can do for her just now. She must have a woman's care; and whose could be so proper as her aunt's? Besides, I shall see her frequently; I shall know all that concerns her, for Rotha will tell me; and if things go wrong, I can at any time put in my hand and set them straight. I am sorry--but this is the thing to do; and there is no help for it.

  In spite of all which certainty in his own mind, Mr. Digby looked forward with positive uneasiness to the telling Rotha what was in store for her. There was no help for that either; it must be done; and Mr. Digby was not one to put off a duty because it was disagreeable.

  The next morning Rotha was at her drawing again, and Mr. Digby lay on the lounge, thinking how he should begin what he had to say. Rotha was looking particularly well; fresh and bright and happy; very busily intent over her drawing. How the girl had improved in these weeks, softened and refined and grown mannerly. She has good blood in her, thought Mr. Digby; her features shew it, and so do her instincts, and her aptitudes.----

  "How would you like to go to school, Rotha?"

  She looked up, with the flash of interest and of feeling which came so readily to her eye.

  "I shouldn't like it as well as _this_, Mr. Digby,"--("this" meant the present course and manner of her education;) "but I suppose you could not go on teaching me always."

  "I am not tired of it, Rotha; but I think it would be better in many respects for you to be at school for a while. You will like it, too."

  "When shall I go, Mr. Digby?" she asked in a subdued voice, without looking up this time.

  "The sooner the better, now. The schools have all begun their terms some weeks ago. And then, Rotha, you must have a home in the city. You could not live out here at Fort Washington, and attend school in New York. I shall be obliged to go back to the city, too."

  "Then I would like to go," said Rotha simply.

  "But you must have more care than mine, my child; at least you must have other care. You must have some lady friend, to look after you as I cannot do. I am going to put you under your aunt's protection."

  Rotha's penci
l fell from her hand and she raised her head now.

  "My aunt?" she repeated.

  "Yes. Your mother's sister; Mrs. Busby. You knew you had an aunt in the city?"

  Rotha disregarded the question. She left her seat and came and stood before the lounge, in the attitude of a young tragedy queen; her hands interlocked before her, her face pale, and not only pale but spotted with colour, in a way that shewed a startling interruption of the ordinary even currents of the blood.

  "O Mr. Digby," she cried, "not her! not her! Do not give me up to her!"

  "Why not?" he asked