been, for the time she had been with her--that was, for about a year
and a half--in declining health and spirits, and that she had loved her
little child to a degree beyond expression--so devotedly that she could
not, in all probability, survive it long.

While she was running on in this way the bell rang, and signing me to
follow, she opened the room door, but stopped in the hall, and taking me
a little aside, and speaking in a whisper, she told me, as I valued the
life of the poor lady, not to say one word of the death of young O'Mara.
I nodded acquiescence, and ascending a narrow and ill-constructed
staircase, she stopped at a chamber door and knocked.

'Come in,' said a gentle voice from within, and, preceded by my
conductress, I entered a moderately-sized, but rather gloomy chamber.

There was but one living form within it--it was the light and graceful
figure of a young woman. She had risen as I entered the room; but owing
to the obscurity of the apartment, and to the circumstance that her
face, as she looked towards the door, was turned away from the light,
which found its way in dimly through the narrow windows, I could not
instantly recognise the features.

'You do not remember me, sir?' said the same low, mournful voice. 'I
am--I WAS--Ellen Heathcote.'

'I do remember you, my poor child,' said I, taking her hand; 'I do
remember you very well. Speak to me frankly--speak to me as a friend.
Whatever I can do or say for you, is yours already; only speak.'

'You were always very kind, sir, to those--to those that WANTED
kindness.'

The tears were almost overflowing, but she checked them; and as if
an accession of fortitude had followed the momentary weakness,
she continued, in a subdued but firm tone, to tell me briefly the
circumstances of her marriage with O'Mara. When she had concluded the
recital, she paused for a moment; and I asked again:

'Can I aid you in any way--by advice or otherwise?'

'I wish, sir, to tell you all I have been thinking about,' she
continued. 'I am sure, sir, that Master Richard loved me once--I am sure
he did not think to deceive me; but there were bad, hard-hearted people
about him, and his family were all rich and high, and I am sure he
wishes NOW that he had never, never seen me. Well, sir, it is not in
my heart to blame him. What was _I_ that I should look at him?--an
ignorant, poor, country girl--and he so high and great, and so
beautiful. The blame was all mine--it was