y objection--" This stranger
to make an objection! It brought something like a tremulous laugh to
Mary's lips.

"Oh, there is no objection," said the lady, "only we have been a little
put out. I see now; you are the young lady who--you are the young lady
that--you are the one that--suffered most."

"I am Lady Mary's goddaughter," said the girl. "I have lived here all my
life."

"Oh, my dear, I have heard all about you," the lady cried. The people who
had taken the house were merely rich people; they had no other
characteristic; and in the vicarage, as well as in the other houses
about, it was said, when they were spoken of, that it was a good thing
they were not people to be visited, since nobody could have had the heart
to visit strangers in Lady Mary's house. And Mary could not but feel a
keen resentment to think that her story, such as it was, the story which
she had only now heard in her own person, should be discussed by such
people. But the speaker had a look of kindness, and, so far as could be
seen, of perplexity and fretted anxiety in her face, and had been in a
hurry, but stopped herself in order to show her interest. "I wonder," she
said impulsively, "that you can come here and look at the place again,
after all that has passed."

"I never thought," said Mary, "that there could be--any objection."

"Oh, how can you think I mean that?--how can you pretend to think so?"
cried the other, impatiently. "But after you have been treated so
heartlessly, so unkindly,--and left, poor thing! they tell me, without a
penny, without any provision--"

"I don't know you," cried Mary, breathless with quick rising passion. "I
don't know what right you can have to meddle with my affairs."

The lady stared at her for a moment without speaking, and then she said,
all at once, "That is quite true,--but it is rude as well; for though I
have no right to meddle with your affairs, I did it in kindness, because
I took an interest in you from all I have heard."

Mary was very accessible to such a reproach and argument. Her face
flushed with a sense of her own churlishness. "I beg your pardon," she
said; "I am sure you mean to be kind."

"Well," said the stranger, "that is perhaps going too far on the other
side, for you can't even see my face, to know what I mean. But I do mean
to be kind, and I am very sorry for you. And though I think you've been
treated abominably, all the same I like you better for not allowing any
one to