onnection with her, knew nothing about her--"

"Instead of," said the vicar, with a slight tremor, "making herself
known, if that was permitted, to--to me, for example, or our friend
here."

"That sounds reasonable, Mary," said Mrs. Bowyer; "don't you think so, my
dear? If she had come to one of us, or to yourself, my darling, I should
never have wondered, after all that has happened. But to this little
child--"

"Whereas there is nothing more likely--more consonant with all the
teachings of science--than that the little thing should have this
hallucination, of which you ought never to have heard a word. You are the
very last person--"

"That is true," said the vicar, "and all the associations of the place
must be overwhelming. My dear, we must take her away with us. Mrs.
Turner, I am sure, is very kind, but it cannot be good for Mary to be
here."

"No, no! I never thought so," said Mrs. Bowyer. "I never intended--dear
Mrs. Turner, we all appreciate your motives. I hope you will let us see
much of you, and that we may become very good friends. But Mary--it is
her first grief, don't you know?" said the vicar's wife, with the tears
in her eyes; "she has always been so much cared for, so much thought of
all her life--and then all at once! You will not think that we
misunderstand your kind motives; but it is more than she can bear. She
made up her mind in a hurry, without thinking. You must not be annoyed if
we take her away."

Mrs. Turner had been looking from one to another while this dialogue went
on. She said now, a little wounded, "I wished only to do what was kind;
but, perhaps I was thinking most of my own child. Miss Vivian must do
what she thinks best."

"You are all kind--too kind," Mary cried; "but no one must say another
word, please. Unless Mrs. Turner should send me away, until I know what
this all means, it is my place to stay here."

IX.

It was Lady Mary who had come into the vicarage that afternoon when Mrs.
Bowyer supposed some one had called. She wandered about to a great many
places in these days, but always returned to the scenes in which her life
had been passed, and where alone her work could be done, if it could be
done at all. She came in and listened while the tale of her own
carelessness and heedlessness was told, and stood by while her favorite
was taken to another woman's bosom for comfort, and heard everything and
saw everything. She was used to it by this time; but to be n