bury,' she said, 'this is so good of you,--so good of
you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you would love me.
You will; will you not?' and Marie, sitting down by the stranger, took
her hand and encircled her waist.

'Mr Melmotte has told you why I have come.'

'Yes;--that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me.'
To poor Hetta such an announcement as this was horrible. 'We are at
daggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as
though my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that;--would
you?' Hetta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could not
fail to remember at the moment that she was not disposed to obey her
mother in an affair of the same kind. 'What does he say, dear?'

Hetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when those were
told, there was nothing more to be said. 'It must all be over, Miss
Melmotte.'

'Is that his message, Miss Carbury?' Hetta nodded her head. 'Is that
all?'

'What more can I say? The other night you told me to bid him send you
word. And I thought he ought to do so. I gave him your message, and I
have brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income of
his own;--nothing at all.'

'But I have,' said Marie with eagerness.

'But your father--'

'It does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give it
to my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he?'

'I think it is impossible.'

'Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. All the people that one
hears of that are really true to their loves never find anything
impossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that.
That's what I want to know.' She paused, but Hetta could not answer
the question. 'You must know about your brother. Don't you know
whether he does love me? If you know I think you ought to tell me.'
Hetta was still silent. 'Have you nothing to say?'

'Miss Melmotte-' began poor Hetta very slowly.

'Call me Marie. You said you would love me, did you not? I don't even
know what your name is.'

'My name is Hetta.'

'Hetta;--that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I have
no brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tell
anybody again;--I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not my
mamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so.' All this she
whispered, with rapid words, almost into Hetta's ear. 'And papa is so
cruel to me! He beats me sometimes.' The new friend, round