"You were very fond of this young
lady?" said Zillah, with her eyes observantly
fixed on Maud's changing face.

"Yes;" answered Maud. Then the tears
gathered to her eyes, and for the moment
she could say no more.

"Your fondness has not been destroyed
by this miserable business?" pursued
Zillah.

Maud silently shook her head, and the
tears fell faster.

"Would you see her and speak to her
again if you could? Would you hold out
your hand to her?"

Mrs. Lockwood, as she spoke, kept her
mouth concealed beneath her hand, and
her eyes on Maud's face.

Maud was aware of a certain constraint
in the elder woman's tone. She thought
it sounded disapproving, almost stern.

"Oh, Mrs. Lockwood," she cried, in
much agitation, "do not judge her too
hardly! You have such a lofty standard
of duty; your son has told me how excellent
your life has been; he is so proud of you!
But do not be too hard on her. If the
good have no pity for her, what will
become of her? I do not defend her. She
failed in her duty towards her father; but
she has been most basely and cruelly
deceived, I am sure of it!"

"Deceived by her great love and faith
in this man?" said Zillah, unwaveringly
preserving the same look and attitude.

Maud grew very pale, and drooped her
head. " She—she—trusted him," she
murmured.

Zillah removed her hand from her mouth,
and, clasping both hands, rested them on
the table before her. When her mouth
was no longer concealed, she cast her eyes
down, and ceased to look at Maud while
she spoke.

"See now, Miss Desmond," said she, in
her soft voice, "how unequally justice is
meted out in this world! Once I knew
a girl—little more than a child in years
— very ignorant, very unprotected, and
very confiding. She was not a handsome
haughty young lady, living in a respectable
home. This girl's associates were all low,
vile people. She was not by nature vicious
or wicked, but she loved with her whole
childish inexperienced heart, and she fell.
She was 'most basely and cruelly
deceived'—I quote your words. It was
neither vanity nor vainglory that led her
astray: nothing but simple, blind,
misplaced affection. Well, nobody pitied her,
nobody cared for her, nobody helped her.

If you, or any delicately nurtured young
lady like you, had met her in the street,
you would have drawn your garments
away from the contamination of her touch."

"No, no, no! Indeed you wrong me!
If I had known her story I should have
pitied her from the bottom of my heart."

Zillah proceeded without heeding the
interruption. "And all her sufferings—they
were acute—I knew her very well—could
not atone. Her fault (I use the word for
want of a better. Where fault lay, God
knows—perhaps He cares!)——"

"Oh Mrs. Lockwood!"

"Do I shock you? That girl's fault
pursued her through life—still pursues
her——"

"Is she alive?"

"Alive? No: I think she is dead, that
girl. Her ghost walks sometimes. But
another woman, in some respects a very
different woman, inherits her legacy of
trouble and shame and sorrow. That seems
hard. But if you tell me that all life is
hard; that we are blind to what is our
bane or what our good; or utter any other
fatalist doctrine, I can understand the reason
and sequence of it. But when you preach
to me that 'Conduct makes Fate;' that
as we reap we sow; and so forth; I point
to these two cases. The one an innocent—
yes; an innocent—child: the other a well-
educated, proud, beautiful, beloved, young
woman. The loving-hearted child is crushed
and tortured and forsaken. The—forgive
me, but I speak what you know to be true—
the selfish, vain, arrogant, ambitious lady,
commits the same sin against the world,
and is rich, petted, and pampered. The
rough places are made smooth for her feet.
People cry 'How sad! A lady! The
daughter of a clergyman!' Her friends
hold out their hands to take her back.
Even you—a pure, fresh, young creature
like you—are ready to mourn over her, and
to forgive her and caress her with angelic
sweetness and pity."

Maud could not help perceiving, that Mrs.
Lockwood was mentally visiting on Veronica
the hard usage of the poor betrayed young
girl she had spoken of. It seemed as though
in proportion to the pity that she felt for
that young girl, she grudged every pitying
word that was bestowed on Veronica.
Maud felt it very strange that it should
be so: and she had almost a sense of guilt
herself, for having become aware of it.
But her intellect was too clear for self-
delusion, and, albeit most unwillingly, she
could not but understand the spirit of