the forces of Good triumphing in the strife for her
over the forces of Evil, turned her back on the
scene of her meditated deception, and hurried her
mercifully farther and farther away from the fatal
house.

She stopped the first empty cab that passed
her; told the driver to go to New-street, Spring-
gardens; and promised to double his fare if he
reached his destination by a given time. The man
earned the money—more than earned it, as the
event proved. Magdalen had not taken ten steps
in advance along New-street, walking towards St.
James's Park, before the door of a house beyond
her opened, and a lady in mourning came out,
accompanied by two little girls. The lady also took
the direction of the Park, without turning her
head towards Magdalen, as she descended the
house step. It mattered little; Magdalen's
heart looked through her eyes, and told her that
she saw Norah.

She followed them into St. James's Park, and
thence (along the Mall) into the Green Park,
venturing closer and closer as they reached the
grass and ascended the rising ground in the direction
of Hyde Park Corner. Her eager eyes
devoured every detail in Norah's dress, and
detected the slightest change that had taken place
in her figure and her bearing. She had become
thinner since the autumn—her head drooped a
little; she walked wearily. Her mourning dress,
worn with the modest grace and neatness which
no misfortune could take from her, was suited to
her altered station; her black gown was made of
stuff; her black shawl and bonnet were of the
plainest and cheapest kind. The two little girls,
walking on either side of her, were dressed in
silk. Magdalen instinctively hated them.

She made a wide circuit on the grass, so as to
turn gradually and meet her sister, without
exciting suspicion that the meeting was contrived.
Her heart beat fast; a burning heat glowed in her
as she thought of her false hair, her false colour,
her false dress, and saw the dear familiar face
coming nearer and nearer. They passed each
other close. Norah's dark gentle eyes looked
up, with a deeper light in them, with a sadder
beauty, than of old—rested all unconscious
of the truth on her sister's face—and looked
away from it again, as from the face of a
stranger. That glance of an instant struck
Magdalen to the heart. She stood rooted to the
ground, after Norah had passed by. A horror
of the vile disguise that concealed her; a yearning
to burst its trammels and hide her shameful
painted face on Norah's bosom, took possession
of her, body and soul. She turned, and looked
back.

Norah and the two children had reached the
higher ground, and were close to one of the
gates in the iron railing which fenced the Park
from the street. Drawn by an irresistible
fascination, Magdalen followed them again,
gained on them as they reached the gate, and
heard the voices of the two children raised in
angry dispute which way they wanted to walk
next. She saw Norah take them through the
gate, and then stoop and speak to them, while
waiting for an opportunity to cross the road.
They only grew the louder and the angrier for what
she said. The youngest—a girl of eight or nine
years old—flew into a child's vehement passion,
cried, screamed, and even kicked at the governess.
The people in the street stopped and
laughed; some of them jestingly advised a little
wholesome correction; one woman asked Norah
if she was the child's mother; another pitied her
audibly for being the child's governess. Before
Magdalen could push her way through the
crowd—before her all-mastering anxiety to
help her sister had blinded her to every other
consideration, and had brought her, self-betrayed,
to Norah's side—an open carriage passed the
pavement slowly, hindered in its progress by the
press of vehicles before it. An old lady seated
inside heard the child's cries, recognised Norah,
and called to her immediately. The footman parted
the crowd, and the children were put into the
carriage. "It's lucky I happened to pass this way,"
said the old lady, beckoning contemptuously to
Norah to take her place on the front seat; "you
never could manage my daughter's children, and
you never will." The footman put up the steps
—the carriage drove on with the children and the
governess—the crowd dispersed—and Magdalen
was alone again.

"So be it!" she thought bitterly. "I should
only have distressed her. We should only have
had the misery of parting to suffer again."

She mechanically retraced her steps; she
returned, as in a dream, to the open space of the
Park. Arming itself treacherously with the
strength of her love for her sister, with the
vehemence of the indignation that she felt for her
sister's sake, the terrible temptation of her life
fastened its hold on her more firmly than ever.
Through all the paint and disfigurement of the
disguise, the fierce despair of that strong and
passionate nature lowered haggard and horrible.
Norah made an object of public curiosity and
amusement; Norah reprimanded in the open
street; Norah the hired victim of an old woman's
insolence and a child's ill-temper—and the
same man to thank for it who had sent Frank
to China!—and that man's son to thank after
him! The thought of her sister, which had
turned her from the scene of her meditated
deception, which had made the consciousness
of her own disguise hateful to her—was now
the thought which sanctioned that means, or
any means, to compass her end; the thought
which set wings to her feet, and hurried her back
nearer and nearer to the fatal house.

She left the Park again; and found herself in
the streets, without knowing where. Once more
she hailed the first cab that passed her—and told
the man to drive to Vauxhall Walk.

The change from walking to riding quieted
her. She felt her attention returning to herself