urnished again, her blue eyes sparkled, and
her delicate skin had recovered its rose-leaf tinge. She wore a new
frock, a new ring, a new watch and chain, and there was a new look in
her face, one might say, as if the winter of care had passed out of
her life with the snow and been forgotten in the spring sunshine of
better prospects.

"O Mr. Brock!" she exclaimed; "you back! But none too well yet,
judging by appearances."

"Where is Mrs. Maclure?" he demanded.

"I wish I knew!" Ethel Maud Mary rejoined, becoming important all at
once. "She's gone for good, that's all I can tell you. O Mr. Brock!
fancy her being tip-top all the time, and us not suspecting it, though
I might have thought something when I saw the dresses she sold when
you were ill, only I'd got the fashion papers in my mind, and didn't
know but what she'd been paid in dresses! Come into the parlour; you
look faint."

"You said she sold her dresses?"

"Yes; sit down, Mr. Brock. A glass of port wine is what you want, as
she'd say herself if she was here; and you'll get it good too, for
it's been sent for Ma. My! the things that have come! Look at me--all
presents--everything she ever heard me say I'd like to have; and
Gwendolen the same."

She got out the wine and the biscuits from a chiffonier as she
chattered, and set them before him.

"Yes, she sold her dresses, and her rings, and her books, and every
other blessed thing she possessed except what had belonged to an old
aunt. She got _them_ out too, one day, but cried so when it came to
parting with them, I persuaded her to wait. I said something would
turn up, I was sure. And something did, for _you_ went away, and
directly after--the next minute, so to speak, for you were scarcely
out of sight--a lady stopped her carriage--a fine carriage and pair
and coachman and footman all silver-mounted--and ran up the steps in a
great way. She'd seen Mrs. Maclure go into the house, and she said
she'd been hunting for her everywhere for months, and all her friends
were in a way about her, not knowing what had happened to her. I took
the lady up to the attic, and there was Mrs. Maclure lying on the
floor looking like death, with her head up against the big chair where
you used to sit. We thought she _was_ dead at first, but the doctor
came and brought her round. He said it was just exhaustion from
fatigue and starvation."

Arthur Brock uttered an exclamation.

"You needn't reproach yourself, Mr. Brock," E