der--she screamed and cowered down.

"Are you the constable? He said he would send the constable."

"Hush--do not be afraid. Cousin--Cousin Caroline."

God knows how long it was since any woman had spoken to her in that
tone. It seemed to startle back her shattered wits. She rose to her
feet, smiling airily.

"Madam, you are very kind. I believe I have had the pleasure of seeing
you somewhere. Your name is--"

"Ursula Halifax. Do you remember?"--speaking gently as she would have
done to a child.

Lady Caroline bowed--a ghastly mockery of her former sprightly grace.
"Not exactly; but I dare say I shall presently--au revoir, madame!"

She was going away, kissing her hand--that yellow, wrinkled, old
woman's hand,--but John stopped her.

"My wife wants to speak to you, Lady Caroline. She wishes you to come
home with us."

"Plait il?--oh yes; I understand. I shall be happy--most happy."

John offered her his arm with an air of grave deference; Mrs. Halifax
supported her on the other side. Without more ado, they put her in the
carriage and drove home, leaving Maud in my charge, and leaving
astounded Norton Bury to think and say exactly what it pleased.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

For nearly three years Lady Caroline lived in our house--if that
miserable existence of hers could be called living--bedridden, fallen
into second childhood:

"Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw;"

oblivious to both past and present, recognising none of us, and taking
no notice of anybody, except now and then of Edwin's little daughter,
baby Louise.

We knew that all our neighbours talked us over, making far more than a
nine days' wonder of the "very extraordinary conduct" of Mr. and Mrs.
Halifax. That even good Lady Oldtower hesitated a little before she
suffered her tribe of fair daughters to visit under the same roof where
lay, quite out of the way, that poor wreck of womanhood, which would
hardly have tainted any woman now. But in process of time the gossip
ceased of itself; and when, one summer day, a small decent funeral
moved out of our garden gate to Enderley churchyard, all the comment
was:

"Oh! is she dead?--What a relief it must be! How very kind of Mr. and
Mrs. Halifax!"

Yes, she was dead, and had "made no sign," either of repentance, grief,
or gratitude. Unless one could consider as such a moment's lightening
before death, which Maud declared she saw in her--Maud, who had tended
her with a d