arch for the girl, which--so far as the Sister
knew--seemed to have ended in failure.

"But you have found her after all!" cried the good Sister, when Flossy
acknowledged that she was the sister of Hubert Lepel, and presumably
interested in his charitable enterprises. "I am so glad! And she is
growing quite famous? Dear me, I wonder that Mr. Lepel did not let us
know!"

"Possibly he thought that you would be more grieved than delighted by
the discovery of her present position," said Flossy, not sorry to aim an
arrow at the unknown Cynthia behind her back, and perhaps deprive her of
some very useful and affectionate friends. "Miss West, as she calls
herself, does not bear a good character." She felt a malicious pleasure
in bringing the color into the Sister's delicate cheeks, the moisture
into those kindly, mild gray eyes. "She went upon the stage almost at
once, and lived--well, I need not tell you how she lived perhaps; you
can imagine it no doubt for yourself. I am afraid she was a thoroughly
bad girl from the first."

"Oh, no, no--I hope not!" exclaimed Sister Louisa, the tears flowing
freely over her pale face. "Our poor Janie! She was a dear child,
generous and kind-hearted, although impetuous and wilful now and then.
If you see her, Mrs. Vane, tell her that our arms are always open to
her--that, if she will come back to us, we will give her pardon and
care, and help her to lead a good and honest life."

"I am afraid she will never return to you--she would probably be
ashamed," said Mrs. Vane, rather venomously, as she took her leave. "I
am so sorry to hurry away, Sister, but I am afraid that I must catch my
train. You are quite sure then that Jane or Janie Wood, who had such a
beautiful voice, and ran away from you in July, 187-, was really the
daughter of the convict Westwood, and that Mr. Lepel and Mrs. Rumbold
placed her with you and sought for her afterwards?"

"Quite sure," said Sister Louisa.

There was a vague trouble at her heart--an uneasiness for which she
could not account. Something in Mrs. Vane's manner--something in her
tone, her smile, her eyes--was distasteful to the unerring instincts of
the pure God-fearing woman, as it had been to the trained observation of
Maurice Evandale. Flossy might do her best to be charming--she might
disarm criticism by the sweetness of her manner; but, in spite of her
efforts, candid and unsullied natures were apt to discern in her a want
of frankness--a little t