mature age; she was still a handsome woman; she could still
find in her heart the courage for a strong decision.

There was no maid--Mrs. Hannaford herself laid upon the table what was
to serve for an evening meal; and she had just done so when her
daughter came in. Olga had changed considerably in the past three
years; at one-and-twenty she would have passed for several years older;
her complexion was fatigued, her mouth had a nervous mobility which
told of suppressed suffering, her movements were impatient, irritable.
But at this moment she did not wear a look of unhappiness; there was a
glow in her fine eyes, a tremour of resolve on all her features. On
entering the room where her mother stood, she at once noticed a change.
Their looks met: they gazed excitedly at each other.

"What is it? Why have you dressed?"

"Because I am a free woman. My sister is dead, and has left me a lot of
money."

They rushed into each other's arms; they caressed with tears and sobs;
it was minutes before they could utter more than broken phrases and
exclamations.

"What shall you do?" the girl asked at length, holding her mother's
hand against her heart. Of late there had been unwonted conflict
between them, and in the reaction of joy they became all tenderness.

"What I ought to have done long ago--go and live away----"

"Will it be possible, dear?"

"It shall be!" exclaimed the mother vehemently. "I am not a slave--I am
not a wife! I ought to have had courage to go away years since. It was
wrong, wrong to live as I have done. The money is my own, and I will be
free. He shall have a third of it every year, if he leaves me free.
One-third is yours, one mine."

"No, no!" said Olga drawing back. "For me, none of it!"

"Yes, you will live with me--you will, Olga! This makes everything
different. You will see that you cannot do what you thought of! Don't
speak of it now--think--wait----"

The girl moved apart. Her face lost its brightness; hardened in
passionate determination.

"I can't begin all that again," she said, with an accent of weariness.

"No! I won't speak of it now, Olga. But will you do one thing for me?
Will you put it off for a short time? I'll tell you what I've planned;
your uncle and I talked it all over. I must leave this house before
_he_ comes back, to-morrow morning. I can't go to your uncle's house,
as he asked me; you see why it is better not, don't you? The best will
be to go into lodgings for a time,