it for her. What if he sent her a hundred-
pound note in a blank envelope? She looked
poor, and even if . . . .

But at this point his meditations were broken
in upon. A shadow darkened the doorway;
Miss Rivière rose from her seat upon the
threshold; and Lady Castletowers stood
suddenly before Saxon's astonished eyes.

CHAPTER XLIII. WHAT SAXON HEARD IN THE
MAUSOLEUM.

LADY CASTLETOWERS was the first to speak;
and her voice, when she spoke, was measured
and haughty.

"You have requested to see me again, Miss
Rivière," she said.

"I have been compelled to do so," was the
almost inaudible reply.

"And I have come here at your request."

Lady Castletowers paused, as if for some
acknowledgment of her condescension in having
done so; but no acknowledgment came.

"I must, however, beg you to understand
quite distinctly that it is for the last time," she
said, presently. "It is impossible that I should
hold any future communication with you otherwise
than by letter, and then only at stated
periods, as heretofore."

The young lady murmured something of which
Saxon could not distinguish a syllable.

"Then you will oblige me by saying it at
once, and as briefly as possible," replied Lady
Castletowers.

Saxon felt very uncomfortable. He knew
that he ought not to be there. He knew this
to be a strictly private conversation, and was
quite aware that he ought not to overhear it;
and yet what was he to do? He could still
walk out, it was true, and explain his involuntary
imprisonment; but he had an instinctive
feeling that Lady Castletowers would not have
come to meet Miss Rivière in the park if she
had not wished to keep the meeting secret, and
that his presence there, however well he might
apologise for it, would cause her ladyship a very
disagreeable surprise. Or he might stop his
ears, and so be, virtually, as far away as in his
London chambers; but then he felt certain that
this young girl whom he had assisted once
before, was now in some great trouble, and he
longed to know what that trouble was, that he
might assist her again. So, as these thoughts
flashed through his mind, Saxon concluded to
stay where he was, and not to stop his ears—
at least for the present.

Lady Castletowers had requested Miss
Rivière to state her business at once, and also
to state it briefly; but it seemed as if the
task were strangely difficult, for the girl still
hesitated.

At length she said, with a kind of sob:

"Lady Castletowers, my mother is very ill."

And then Saxon could see that she was
weeping.

"Do you mean that your mother is dying?"
asked the Countess, coldly.

"No; but that she must die, if the necessary
means are not taken to save her."

"What do you mean by the necessary
means?"

"Doctor Fisher says that she must go to
some place on the Italian coast—to Nice, or
Mentone," replied the girl, making a great
effort to steady her voice, and keep her tears
from falling. "He thinks she may live there
for years, with care and proper treatment;
but . . . ."

"Why not here, with care and proper
treatment?" said Lady Castletowers.

"He says this variable climate is killing her
—that she is dying day by day, as long as she
remains in it."

"It is her native climate," said Lady Castletowers.

"Yes—but she was so young when she left
it; and she has lived so many, many years of
her life abroad."

"Well?"

The girl lifted up her face, all pale and tearful
as it was, and looked at her—just looked at
her—but said never a word. It was not an
indignant look—nor an imploring look—nor even
a reproachful look; but it was, at all events, a
look that Lady Castletowers seemed to
understand, for she replied to it, and the reply,
though spoken as haughtily as ever, had in it
something of the nature of an apology.

"You are aware," she said, "that your
mother's annuity is paid out of my ovn private
means, and without my son's knowledge. And
my private means are very small. So small,
that I find it difficult to meet even this obligation,
inconsiderable as it is."

"But you will not let her die, Lady
Castletowers! You cannot—you will not let her
die!"

And the young girl wrung her hands together,
in the passionate earnestness of her appeal.

Lady Castletowers looked down, and seemed
as if she were tracing patterns on the turf with
the end of her parasol.

"What sum do you require?" she said,
slowly.

"Doctor Fisher said about thirty pounds . . ."

"Impossible. I will try to give you twenty
pounds for this purpose—in fact, I will promise
you twenty pounds; but I cannot do more."

Miss Rivière was about to speak; but the
Countess slightly raised her hand, and checked
the words upon her lips.

"The annuity," she said, "shall be paid, as
usual, into the hands of whatever foreign banker
you may indicate; but I beg you both to
understand that I must be troubled with no more
applications of this kind."

The girl's cheek glowed with sudden
indignation.

"You will be troubled with none, madam,"
she said. "Had there been any other person in
the world to whom I could have applied for aid,
I should not have claimed your assistance now."

Her eye dilated, and her lip trembled, and she
said it firmly and proudly—as proudly as Lady