at had been
the scene of her last night's humiliation. But she did not think of that
now, in this supreme crisis of her fate.

Straight before her, opposite the door by which she entered, was an
interesting tableau, in a dazzling light--it was a sumptuous fireside
picture--the coal-fire glowing between the polished steel bars of the
wide grate, the white marble mantel-piece, and above that, reaching to
the lofty ceiling, a full-length portrait of Herman Brudenell; before
the fire an inlaid mosaic table, covered with costly books, work-boxes,
hand-screens, a vase of hot-house flowers, and other elegant trifles of
luxury; on the right of this, in a tall easy-chair, sat Mrs. Brudenell;
on this side sat the Misses Brudenell; these three ladies were all
dressed in slight mourning, if black silk dresses and white lace collars
can be termed such; and they were all engaged in the busy idleness of
crochet work; but on a luxurious crimson velvet sofa, drawn up to the
left side of the fire, reclined a lady dressed in the deepest mourning,
and having her delicate pale, sad face half veiled by her long, soft
black ringlets.

While Nora gazed breathlessly upon this pretty creature, whom she
recognized at once as the stranger, Mrs. Brudenell slowly raised her
head and stared at Nora.

"You here, Nora Worth! How dare you? Who had the insolence to let you
in?" she said, rising and advancing to the bell-cord. But before she
could pull it Nora Worth lifted her hand with that commanding power
despair often lends to the humblest, and said:

"Stop, madam, this is no time to heap unmerited scorn upon one crushed
to the dust already, and whose life cannot possibly offend you or cumber
the earth much longer. I wish to speak to that lady."

"With me!" exclaimed Lady Hurstmonceux, rising upon her elbow and gazing
with curiosity upon the beautiful statue that was gliding toward her as
if it were moved by invisible means.

Mrs. Brudenell paused with her hand upon the bell-tassel and looked at
Nora, whose lovely face seemed to have been thus turned to stone in some
moment of mortal suffering, so agonized and yet so still it looked! Her
hair had fallen loose and hung in long, wet, black strings about her
white bare neck, for she had neither shawl nor bonnet; her clothes were
soaked with the melted snow, and she had lost one shoe in her wild night
walk.

Mrs. Brudenell shuddered with aversion as she looked at Nora; when she
found her voice sh