The stranger in the window-seat started
with a quick, uneasy movement.

"This side or the other side," returned
Mrs. Jenkyn. "It's not for them that eat the
family's bread to be raking up what's past
and gone and out of people's minds. And
before strangers too," she added with a side
glance in the direction of the window-seat.

"You're always so touchy, Mrs. Jenkyn,"
returned the old man, speaking, however, in
a submissive tone, "just as if nobody cared
about the family but yourself. And what's
the use of minding the woman who's sat there
four mortal hours, and never stirred or
spoken? She's either deaf or stupid."

"I'm not so sure of that," replied the
discreet Mrs. Jenkyn; and, at this moment
the woman as if to justify the old lady's
observation, roused herself from her deep
pre-occupation, and said abruptly: "Will
any one take a second message from me to
Mrs. Moreton? I have come many miles
to speak with her. It is now getting late,
and I want to be upon my way home."

Mrs. Jenkyn answered her very civilly:
"I will go and carry your message. It is
very seldom that Mrs. Moreton keeps any
one waiting; but I suppose," she added,
smiling, "nothing goes quite straight at a
time like this."

At that moment a bell rang. It was Mrs.
Moreton's bell—she wished to see the person
who had been waiting so long.

"Here, William," said Mrs. Jenkyn, "show
this good woman into the stone parlour.
Mrs. Moreton will speak to her there; and.
Ma'am," she added, good-naturedly, "you
can take a look at the pictures on the grand
staircase as you pass the foot of it."

The gossiping old man, as they went
along, had many things to point out to his
silent, steadfast-looking companion. He left
her, however, at the turning of one of the
long passages to run back to the servants'
hall with a hound which had stealthily
strayed into forbidden precincts. Between
this spot and the stone parlour there were
several intricate windings, and he expected
to find the woman standing exactly where he
left her. Without his guidance, however,
she had preceded him to the door of the
stone parlour; and waited for him, with
a look of abstraction as fixed as if her feet
had brought her to that threshold of their
own accord.

"So, Mistress," exclaimed the old man,
"you are not quite so much of a stranger in
this house as I thought."

He bent on her a look of keen scrutiny.
She was too little conscious to be embarrassed
by it, and replied quietly, "I have been here
before."

While this little scene was being acted
below stairs, Mrs. Moreton—half governess,
half friend to the heiress—was seated with
her young pupil in the great drawing-room.
They too had been very busy. This splendid
apartment showed marks of disarrangement
The elder lady was immersed in accounts;
the younger one had placed a little table
within the embrasure of the deep old-fashioned
window, so as to give her drawing—upon
which she was very intent—the full benefit
of the already declining daylight. She was
about fifteen; fair, and ingenuous-looking;
of slender figure, with mild, almost melancholy
brown eyes.

"I think I shall have time to finish this,"
she said musingly; "it will please papa
when he comes home this evening, will it not,
dear Mrs. Moreton?"

"My lord will think that you have made
great progress," replied that lady, without
lifting her eyes from a very long line of
figures.

"I do think it is like old Chedbury—like
enough, at any rate, to remind us of the
place when we are away. Although, after
all, there is nothing here that I shall much
miss. You and papa and good old Jenkyn
are all going with me; and who else is there
in the world whom I care about? Yet,"
she went on, thinking aloud, "if I had some
one to leave behind; some young companions
who would miss me and talk about me when
I am far away, I think I should be happier.
I sometimes think it very strange"—she
looked up at Mrs. Moreton—"that my father
has never allowed me to make any friends
of my own age. But, of course," she added,
after a pause, "he cannot be expected to
enter into all that a girl feels. How different
everything would have been if my mother
had lived!"

Without making her pupil any answer,
Mrs. Moreton started up with a sudden
exclamation, and ran to the bell. "Is it
possible," she said, self-reproachfully, "that
all this time I have forgotten the poor woman
who asked to speak to me four hours ago?"

Mrs. Moreton entered the stone parlour
with some kind words of apology; and seated
herself in her accustomed chair, prepared
to lend her best attention to the visitor.
But the woman—is she the same who sat
out those four hours so patiently in the
window-seat; who followed the old servant
through the long passage with such a face
of blank unquestioning apathy? Her look
of settled pre-occupation had dropped from
her face like a mask; yet her real features,
now revealed, wore a scarcely less fixed
expression. Every line quivered with agitation;
yet her eyes, through it all, were never
removed from Mrs. Moreton's face. She
held to the table for support. She trembled
in every limb; not from timidity: but from
anxiety; eagerness. Her soul was gathered
up into her face.

Mrs. Moreton did not particularly observe
her. Her thoughts were still at work with
the business of to-day and to-morrow. "Well,