sked for everything?' said Lady Davenant.

'No doubt we were very dressy, as you say.'

'No wonder he went bankrupt--for he did, didn't he?'

'He had dreadful reverses but he only sacrificed himself--he protected
others.'

'Well, I know nothing about these things and I only ask _pour me
renseigner_,' Mrs. Berrington's guest went on. 'And after their reverses
your father and mother lived I think only a short time?'

Laura Wing had covered herself again with her mantle; her eyes were now
bent upon the ground and, standing there before her companion with her
umbrella and her air of momentary submission and self-control, she might
very well have been a young person in reduced circumstances applying for
a place. 'It was short enough but it seemed--some parts of it--terribly
long and painful. My poor father--my dear father,' the girl went on. But
her voice trembled and she checked herself.

'I feel as if I were cross-questioning you, which God forbid!' said Lady
Davenant. 'But there is one thing I should really like to know. Did
Lionel and his wife, when you were poor, come freely to your
assistance?'

'They sent us money repeatedly--it was _her_ money of course. It was
almost all we had.'

'And if you have been poor and know what poverty is tell me this: has it
made you afraid to marry a poor man?'

It seemed to Lady Davenant that in answer to this her young friend
looked at her strangely; and then the old woman heard her say something
that had not quite the heroic ring she expected. 'I am afraid of so many
things to-day that I don't know where my fears end.'

'I have no patience with the highstrung way you take things. But I have
to know, you know.'

'Oh, don't try to know any more shames--any more horrors!' the girl
wailed with sudden passion, turning away.

Her companion got up, drew her round again and kissed her. 'I think you
would fidget me,' she remarked as she released her. Then, as if this
were too cheerless a leave-taking, she added in a gayer tone, as Laura
had her hand on the door: 'Mind what I tell you, my dear; let her go!'
It was to this that the girl's lesson in philosophy reduced itself, she
reflected, as she walked back to Mellows in the rain, which had now come
on, through the darkening park.

II

The children were still at tea and poor Miss Steet sat between them,
consoling herself with strong cups, crunching melancholy morsels of
toast and dropping an absent gaze on her little c