am talking about? Did you ever feel a
child's arms clinging round your neck, and
find the little being growing to you day
by day as nothing else can grow; loving you
— whether you are the best woman in the
world or the worst —as nothing else will
ever love you; not even itself when it
grows older, and other things come between
its little heart and yours?"

Mrs. Moreton returned to her chair, sank
into it, and wept. The stranger saw her
advantage. She flung herself on her knees
before Mrs. Moreton. She kissed the hands
m which she believed the balance of her
fate to be trembling. She kissed her very
gown, and covered it with tears.

Mrs. Moreton, withdrawn within in severe
colloquy with herself, was scarcely conscious
of these passionate demonstrations. It was
her heart she communed with; bearing on it,
although a little dimmed by constant attrition
with the world, a higher image than that
with which a somewhat rigid thraldom to
convention had impressed her outward aspect.

There was a pause of a few moments.

"Even if I am doing right in this" —so she
reasoned with herself —"the world will blame
me. Yet, if I am doing wrong, God will
forgive me." She rose from her chair. "Get
up," she said, "my poor woman. You shall
see your daughter. But you must first make
me one solemn promise. I am trusting you
very deeply; can you trust yourself?"

The woman made a gesture of passionate
asseveration; for at that moment she could
not speak.

"Swear then," said Mrs. Moreton, "swear
that you will be true to yourself and to me;
that you will pass through the room in which
she is sitting without either word or look that
can betray you."

She rang the bell. "Send Mrs. Jenkyn to
me."

"Jenkyn," she said, when the confidential
servant appeared, "this good woman's
business with me is over; but, as she comes
from a distance, I should like her to see
something of the house before she leaves.
You can show her over the principal rooms;
as much as there is time for before dark."

"And the great drawing-room. Ma'am?"
insinuated Mrs. Jenkyn.

"Certainly; it will not disturb your young
lady in the least."

It was rather an extensive orbit that the
two had to traverse; and the old
housekeeper, who had revolved in it so many
years, moved so slowly —at least, so it seemed
to her companion —from point to point, from
picture to picture, that, by the time they
reached the great drawing-room, the
sunlight had almost faded from it.

Almost; for there was still a strong slanting
golden beam, that played and flickered about
the picture-frames, and glanced to and fro
upon the white and gold of the heavy, carved
arm-chairs —a few moments, and it would be
gone. The girl —who, sitting in the window,
rejoiced in this after-thought of the sun,
which gave her a little more time to finish
her drawing —did not know how lovely it
made her; kissing her innocent young
forehead, and resting, like a benediction, upon
her smooth, shining hair. She went on
quietly with her sketch: Mrs. Moreton (who
had returned to see that faith was kept)
persevered with her accounts. Mrs. Jenkyn and
the woman walked round the room very
slowly. When they reached the door that
led into an inner apartment, Mrs. Jenkyn,
with her hand upon the lock, said, "And this
used to be the favourite sitting-room of my
lady, my lord's mother."

She held the door open; but her
companion still lingered.

Mrs. Moreton looked up from her accounts
and said impressively, "I think you have now
seen all in this room, and Mrs. Jenkyn has
more to show you in the others."

"But why," said the young lady, speaking
for the first time, but without looking up
from her occupation, "should the good
woman be hurried away until she has seen
as much as she wishes? Pray stay," she said,
with a sort of careless sweetness, still without
looking up, "as long as you can find
anything to amuse you. You do not disturb
us in the least."

Almost while she spoke, she suddenly rose
and flitted about the room from table to
table, in search of something needed for her
drawing. She soon found it; but once, before
she returned to her seat, she passed close to the
woman; so close that her silk dress rustled
against the homely duffle cloak: mother and
daughter really so near —conventionally so
distant —with a world between them!

Mrs. Jenkyn's fingers were again upon the
door handle; and the concluding part of her
often-told narrative was upon her lips. They
had still the state bedroom to see, and they
passed into the boudoir.

"And this," she went on, "was my lady's
favourite apartment. It used in her day
to be called the blue drawing-room, because—
But you are tired," she said, remarking that
her companion's attention wandered.

"Yes —no," said the visitor incoherently;
"I must go back. I have forgotten something
in the next room."

She did go back. She turned the handle of
the great folding door; but, before she could
push it open, she was met by a heavy resistance
from within. In the half-opened space
stood Mrs. Moreton, confronting her with a
stern admonitory whisper —"Woman! are
you mad or wicked?"

The mother stood arrested —guilty. She
turned to follow the housekeeper; but there
was an anguish at her heart that could not
be controlled."

"Hark!" exclaimed the young lady, her
pencil falling from her fingers, and she turning
pale as death, "what is that?"