"Very well," I answered, thinking of the
jubilee that was going on at the hall.

"There is more wickedness in. the world
than mine," said Jane, still frowning at the
carpet. " She is false, and you are false—
every one is false. I only know of two grand
souls in the world—my mother and John.
But the wicked ones will prosper, see if they
don't—those who are gay and charming, at
least. Bad ones go down like a stone, and lie
at the bottom."

At this moment an eager treble voice was
heard on the stairs, and the next Mopsie and I
were crying, with our heads together, on the
lobby.

"Oh, Margery, Margery!" sobbed the little
one—" dear, darling, sweet Margery! why are
you going away? You promised you would
always stay. Oh, oh, Margery!"

An hour passed before I could tear myself
away from the child. Jane prepared luncheon,
which was not eaten; but she did not attempt
to share in our sorrow and caresses. When I
turned from the door Mopsie was prostrate,
weeping on the mat; and Jane was standing
upright in the doorway, straight, stern, and
pale. So I went sorrowing back to the hall.
And I had not seen Mrs. Hollingford.

Had I seen her that day, had her errand of
mercy not taken her away from her home and
kept her away while I stayed, the whole current
of my life and of the lives of others might have
been changed. She would then have had no
reason to come and visit me the next morning
at the hall, as she did.

I was busy packing in my own room,
enlivening my work by humming gay airs, just to
make believe to myself that I was very merry
at the prospect of my visit to London. The
door opened quickly, and Rachel came in,
walking on tiptoe, with her hand to her lips in
trepidation. Her face was as pale as snow,
and large tears stood in her eyes.

"My mother, my mother!" she said, like one
talking in her sleep. "I have seen my
mother."

"What do you mean, Rachel?" I cried,
quite panic-stricken; for I thought that her
mother was dead, and she must have seen a
ghost.

"My mother—Mrs. Hollingford; you know
her; you are her true daughter; I am nobody
—a liar, an outcast. Oh, oh, Margery! she
did not know me. Am I changed? I was
a child then. And she—oh, God! how sunken
her eyes are, and dim!—she did not know me.
' And this is Miss Leonard!' she said; and I
hung my false face, and curtseyed from the
distance, and ran away. Oh, God! my mother!
Margery, Margery!"

The strange confused words passed like light
into my brain. Eirst the room grew dark, and
then so bewilderingly bright, that I could see
nothing. But presently Rachel's white face,
with its piteous look, came glimmering towards
me. I stretched out both my hands to her, but
she melted from my touch; what colour of life
remained in her face faded away from it, and
she fell in a swoon at my feet.

CHAPTER XIII.

A MESSENGER came to my door to tell me
that Mrs. Hollingford was waiting to see me.
Rachel, restored to her senses, was lying upon
my bed with her face hidden on my hands.

"Rachel," I said, " I must go to her; but
before I go tell me, assure me, that what you
have said is true, that you are truly the daughter
of Mrs. Hollingford."

"I am truly her daughter, Mary Hollingford,"
said Rachel (for I cannot but still call
her Rachel); " I am John's sister. That is the
secret I wanted to tell you one night, when you
were jealous. But you would not listen. I
have more, much more, to tell you; but go
now. One thing I beg you to promise me—
that you will tell her you have changed your
mind about going to London. Let the Tyrrells
go, and stay you with me—oh, stay with me!
I want you so badly; and, now that I have
once spoken, I will trust you with everything
—all my wickedness and weakness, all my
troubles and difficulties."

She spoke entreatiugly, and her tears fell
over my hands as she kissed them.

"I will stay," I said; and the sun began to
dance on the walls, it seemed. " I will help
you all I can; and, oh, how glad I shall be to
let the Tyrrells go without me!"

And then I went down-stairs.

I found my dear old lady looking very sad
and worn and anxious. I threw myself into
her arms and sobbed on her neck.

"What is this, my love?" she said. " Is it
a mistake, after all? And whose is the fault?
Is it yours, or is it John's?"

"Mine—mine," I cried. "And I am not
going to London. But you must not tell John,
this, because he might think——"

"Think what?" she said, smiling.

"Oh, I don't know; but you must only tell
him that I have deferred my visit because
Miss Leonard," I choked a little over the word,
"has pressed me to remain here longer."

She went away smiling and satisfied, and I
went wondering back to my room to hear
Rachel's story.

I found her standing, as pale as a ghost, at
my window, which commanded a view of the
approach to the house. Looking over her
shoulder, I saw Mrs. Hollingford's black robe
disappearing among the trees.

"Now, Rachel," I said—"now for your
story. I have done what you bid me. I am
going to stay with you. Trust me with
everything. I am full of anxiety and wonder."

But at that moment a messenger came to
the door seeking Miss Leonard. Mr. Noble
was waiting for her to walk with him.

Rachel flushed at the summons.

"Do not go; send him word that you are
engaged—what can it matter?" I said, eagerly.

"No, no," said Rachel, confusedly. " You