ainst her in this. Ought
she to consider him? Should his opinion weigh with her or not?

She was still pondering this question on the day after the funeral, when
something happened which went far towards removing her hesitation. She
was sitting in Mrs. Chigwin's garden, which was warm and dry in the
afternoon sun. Mrs. Chigwin was indoors, vigorously "straightening" the
house. Milly was sewing a frock for her child, and the child itself was
tumbling about on a soft rug at her feet.

During the past few days, little had been said respecting Milly's
future. Mrs. Bundlecombe's death had thrown her history into the
background, and she had not seemed eager to obtrude it on any of her
friends. Lettice's assurance that she might safely stay where she was at
present seemed to satisfy her. She had lost her briskness--her
occasional pertness--of manner; she was quiet and subdued, attaching
herself with dog-like fidelity to Lettice's steps, and showing that no
satisfaction was so great as that of being allowed to wait on her. But
her submissiveness had something in it which pained Lettice, while it
touched the deepest fibres of pity in her heart.

She was vaguely wondering what it was that pained her--why there should
be that touch of something almost like subserviency in Milly's manner,
as if to make up for some past injury--when her eyes were arrested by a
locket, which, tied by a black ribbon round Milly's neck, had escaped
from the bosom of her dress, and now hung exposed to view.

It contained a portrait of Sydney's face, evidently cut from a
photograph by the girl herself.

A flood of light entered Lettice's mind; but she took her discovery with
outward calmness. No thought of accusing or upbraiding Milly ever
occurred to her. Why should it? she would have said. It was not Milly
who had been to blame, if the girl's own story were true. It was Sydney
who had been guilty of the blackest treachery, the basest of all crimes.
She thought for a moment of his wife, with pity; she looked with a new
interest and tenderness at the innocent child. She had no
certainty--that was true; but she had very little doubt as to the facts
of the case. And, at any rate, she allowed her suspicion to decide her
own course of action. Why need she care any longer what Sydney desired
for her? His standard was not hers. She was not bound to think of his
verdict--now. He had put himself out of court. She was not sure that she
should even love him a