slept. Dead with fatigue, mentally and bodily,
she had thrown herself dressed as she was on Hannah's bed and in a few
minutes was in a heavy sleep. But before doing so she slipped under the
bolster something she was holding in her left hand. It was the purse
forced upon her by Lancelot Vane.

Mrs. Fenton stood for a minute or so looking at her daughter. She could
not deny that the girl was very pretty, but that prettiness gave her no
satisfaction. She felt instinctively that Lavinia was her rival.

"The baggage is handsomer than I was at her age, and I wasn't a fright
either or the men wouldn't ha' been always dangling after me. With that
face she ought to get a rich husband, but I'll warrant she's a silly
little fool and doesn't know her value," muttered the lady, her hands on
her hips.

Then her eyes travelled over the picturesque figure on the bed, noting
everything--the shoeless foot, the stockings wet to some inches above
the small ankles, the mud-stained skirt, the bedraggled cloak saturated
for quite a foot of its length. Her hair had lost its comb and had
fallen about her shoulders. Mrs. Fenton frowned as she saw these signs
of disorder.

Then she caught sight of a piece of paper peeping from the bosom of the
girl's dress. The next instant she had gently drawn it out and was
reading it. The paper was Dorrimore's letter.

"Of course, I knew there was a man at the bottom of the business. And a
marriage too. Hoity toity, that's another pair of shoes."

She threw back a fold of the cloak, and scrutinised Lavinia's left hand.

"No wedding ring!" she gasped. "I might ha' guessed as much. Oh, the
little fool! Why, she's worse than I was. _I_ wasn't to be taken in by
soft whispers and kisses--well--well--_well_!"

The lady bumped herself into the nearest chair, breathed heavily and
smoothed her apron distractedly. Then she looked at the letter again.
Her glance went to the top of the sheet.

"So, no address. That looks bad. Who's Archibald Dorrimore? May be that
isn't his right name. He's some worthless spark who's got hold of her
for his own amusement. Oh, the silly hussy! What could that prim
Mistress Pinwell have been about? A fine boarding school indeed! She
can't go back. But I won't have her here turning the heads of the men.
That dull lout, Bob Dobson, 'ud as lieve throw his money into her lap as
he'd swallow a mug of ale. What'll her fine friends do for her now?
Nothing. She's ruined herself. Well, I