"No. I am not Agnes. I cannot pray. I want to _do_ something. Oh, dear me! all this shame and sorrow because I had a little love-making with her brother and we did not tell the whole town about it. It is too great a punishment! It is not just nor kind. What wrong have I done? Yet how I have to suffer! No, I cannot pray, but if I can _do_ anything, see any one, be of any earthly help or use----" "I think Medway has some scheme, if Clinton should fail, and that this scheme requires a woman's help." "I hope it does! I hope it does! I will run any risk." "Medway is coming here at seven o'clock. He wishes distinctly to see you. Run what risk you choose. I am not afraid of you. Nothing will make you forget you are Maria Semple." "Thank you, Uncle Neil. Lord Medway and I have always been good friends. He will not ask me to do anything wrong; and if he did, I would not do it." The prospect of his visit somewhat soothed Maria. Though Medway had never said a word of love to her, she knew she was adorable in his eyes as well as she knew the fact of her own existence. Women need no formal declarations; they have considered a lover's case and decided it many a time before he comes to actual confession. In her great trouble she hoped to find this love sufficient in some way for the alleviation of Harry's desperate position. But though she really was in the greatest sorrow, she was not oblivious to her beauty. She knew if she had a favor to ask, it was the best reason she had to offer. So, as the hour approached, she bathed her face and put on the _negligee_ of scarlet silk, which was one of her most becoming house costumes. She thought her intentional, pleasing carelessness of dress would only be noticed in its effect; but Lord Medway was much in love, and love is an occult teacher. He noticed at once the studied effort to make grief attractive--the glowing silk of her gown, the bronze slippers, the bewitching abandon of her dark, curling hair against the amber cushion of the chair on which she sat. And though he had an astonishing plan for Harry's life to propose, Maria's careful negligence gave him hope and courage. For if he had been quite indifferent to her, she would have been more indifferent to the dress she was to meet him in. Nothing else in her surroundings spoke of love or happiness. The best parlor had been opened for his reception; but the few sticks of wood sobbed and sung wearily on the cold hearth, and the room was chill and half-lighted and full of shadows. He noticed, nothing, however, but the lovely girl who came to meet him as he entered it, and who, even in the gloom, showed signs of the violent grief which she soon ceased to restrain. For his tenderness loosed afresh all her complaining; and he encouraged her to open her heart, and to weep with that passionate abandon youth finds comfort in. But when she was weary and had sobbed herself into silence he said: "Miss Semple--may I call you Maria?"