t she was too feeble, and the maid, in spite of
what seemed to the two forlorn ones her fine clothes and fine ways, was
kind and tactful. Victoria's wardrobe was soon laid under contribution;
beautiful linen, and soft silken things she possessed but seldom wore,
were brought out for her destitute guests.

Victoria came in to say good-night. Netta looked at the stately woman,
the hair just beginning to be gray, the strong face with its story of
fastidious thought, of refined and sheltered living.

"You're awfully good to us. It's twenty years!--" Her voice failed her.

"Twenty years--yes, indeed! since I drove over to see you that time! Your
daughter was a little toddling thing."

"We've had such a life--these last few years--oh, such an awful
life! My old father's still alive--but would be better if he were dead.
My mother depended on us entirely--she's dead. But I'll explain
everything--everything."

It was clear, however, that till sleep had knit up the ravelled nerves of
the poor lady, no coherent conversation was possible. Victoria hastened
to depart.

"To-morrow you shall tell me all about yourself. My son will be home
to-morrow. We will consult him and see what can be done."

Mother and daughter were left alone. Felicia rose feebly to go to her own
room, which adjoined her mother's. She was wearing a dressing-gown of
embroidered silk--pale blue, and shimmering--which Victoria's maid had
wrapped her in, after the child's travelling clothes, thread-bare and
mud-stained, had been taken off. The girl's tiny neck and wrists emerged
from it, her little head, and her face from which weariness and distress
had robbed all natural bloom. What she was wearing, or how she looked,
she did not know and did not care. But her mother, in whom dress had been
for years a passion never to be indulged, was suddenly--though all her
exhaustion--enchanted with her daughter's appearance.

"Oh, Felicia, you look so nice!"

She took up the silk of the dressing-gown and passed it through her
fingers covetously; then her tired eyes ran over the room, the white bed
standing ready, the dressing-table with its silver ornaments and flowers,
the chintz-covered sofas and chairs.

"Why shouldn't we be rich too?" she said angrily. "Your father is richer
than the Tathams. It's a wicked, wicked shame!"

Felicia put her hand to her head.

"Oh, do let me go to bed," she said in Italian.

Netta put her arm round her, supporting her. Present