"I know all about it, mamma. She means the time when her papa was
alive. She lost her papa when she was a little girl like me. I didn't
disturb her. I only said, 'My name's Kitty; may I get up on the bed?'
And she was quite willing; and we talked. And I helped her to dress."
Mrs. Linley led Sydney to the sofa, and stopped the flow of her
daughter's narrative. The look, the voice, the manner of the governess
had already made their simple appeal to her generous nature. When her
husband took Kitty's hand to lead her with him out of the room, she
whispered as he passed: "You have done quite right; I haven't a doubt of
it now!"

Chapter III. Mrs. Presty Changes Her Mind.

The two ladies were alone.

Widely as the lot in life of one differed from the lot in life of the
other, they presented a contrast in personal appearance which was more
remarkable still. In the prime of life, tall and fair--the beauty of her
delicate complexion and her brilliant blue eyes rivaled by the charm of
a figure which had arrived at its mature perfection of development--Mrs.
Linley sat side by side with a frail little dark-eyed creature, thin
and pale, whose wasted face bore patient witness to the three cruelest
privations under which youth can suffer--want of fresh air, want of
nourishment, and want of kindness. The gentle mistress of the house
wondered sadly if this lost child of misfortune was capable of seeing
the brighter prospect before her that promised enjoyment of a happier
life to come.

"I was afraid to disturb you while you were resting," Mrs. Linley said.
"Let me hope that my housekeeper has done what I might have done myself,
if I had seen you when you arrived."

"The housekeeper has been all that is good and kind to me, madam."

"Don't call me 'madam'; it sounds so formal--call me 'Mrs. Linley.' You
must not think of beginning to teach Kitty till you feel stronger and
better. I see but too plainly that you have not been happy. Don't think
of your past life, or speak of your past life."

"Forgive me, Mrs. Linley; my past life is my one excuse for having
ventured to come into this house."

"In what way, my dear?"

At the moment when that question was put, the closed curtains which
separated the breakfast-room from the library were softly parted in
the middle. A keen old face, strongly marked by curiosity and distrust,
peeped through--eyed the governess with stern scrutiny--and retired
again into hiding.

The introdu