e--my lady, who rarely went beyond her
own park gates! Turning away, not quite certain that her ears had not
deceived her, my lady's voice arrested her.

"Send Mrs. Weymore to me; and do you lose no time in packing up."

Eliza departed. Mrs. Weymore appeared. My lady had some instructions to
give concerning the children during her absence. Then the governess was
dismissed, and she was again alone.

Through the wind and rain of the wintry storm, Lady Thetford was driven
to the station in time to catch the three-fifty train to the metropolis.
She went unattended; with no message to any one, only saying she would
be back in three days at the farthest.

In that dull household, where so few events ever disturbed the stagnant
quiet, this sudden journey produced an indescribable sensation. What
could have taken my lady to London at a moment's notice? Some urgent
reason it must have been to force her out of the gloomy seclusion in
which she had buried herself since her husband's death. But, discuss it
as they might, they could come no nearer the heart of the mystery.

CHAPTER VI.

GUY.

The rainy December day closed in a rainier night. Another day dawned on
the world, sunless, and chilly, and overcast still.

It dawned on London in murky, yellow fog, on sloppy, muddy streets--in
gloom and dreariness, and a raw, easterly wind. In the densely populated
streets of the district of Lambeth, where poverty huddled in tall, gaunt
buildings, the dismal light stole murkily and slowly over the crowded,
filthy streets, and swarming purlieus.

In a small upper room of a large dilapidated house, this bad December
morning, a painter stood at his easel. The room was bare, and cold, and
comfortless in the extreme; the painter was middle-aged, small, brown,
and shrivelled, and very much out at elbows. The dull, gray light fell
full on his work--no inspiration of genius by any means--only the
portrait, coarsely colored, of a fat, well-to-do butcher's daughter
round the corner. The man was Joseph Legard, scene-painter to one of the
minor city theatres, who eked out his slender income by painting
portraits when he could get them to paint. He was as fond of his art as
any of the great old masters; but he had only one attribute in common
with those immortals--extreme poverty; for his family was large, and Mr.
Legard found it a tight fit, indeed, to "make both ends meet."

He stood over his work this dull morning, however, in his fi