He was cold and inflexible to her prayers. Then she tried threats. He laughed at them. Said he, “The time is gone by for that: if you wanted to sue me for breach of promise, you should have done it at once; not waited eighteen months and taken another sweetheart first. Come, come; you played your little game. You made me come here week after week and bleed a sovereign. A woman that loved a man would never have been so hard on him as you were on me. I grinned and bore it; but when you ask me to own another man's child, a man of your own sort that you are in love with--you hate me--that is a little too much: no, Mrs. Drake; if that is your game we will fight it out--before the public if you like.” And, having delivered this with a tone of harsh and loud defiance, he left her--left her forever. She sat down upon the cold ground and rocked herself. Despair was cold at her heart. She sat in that forlorn state for more than an hour. Then she got up and went to her mistress's room and sat by the fire, for her limbs were cold as well as her heart. She sat there, gazing at the fire and sighing heavily, till Lady Bassett came up to bed. She then went through her work like an automaton, and every now and then a deep sigh came from her breast. Lady Bassett heard her sigh, and looked at her. Her face was altered; a sort of sullen misery was written on it. Lady Bassett was quick at reading faces, and this look alarmed her. “Mary,” said she, kindly, “is there anything the matter?” No reply. “Are you unwell?” “No.” “Are you in trouble?” “Ay!” with a burst of tears. Lady Bassett let her cry, thinking it would relieve her, and then spoke to her again with the languid pensiveness of a woman who has also her trouble. “You have been very attentive to Sir Charles, and a kind good servant to me, Mary.” “You are mocking me, my lady,” said Mary, bitterly. “You wouldn't have turned me off for a word if I had been a good servant.” Lady Bassett colored high, and was silenced for a moment. At last she said, “I feel it must seem harsh to you. You don't know how wicked it was to tempt me. But it is not as if you had _done_ anything wrong. I do not feel bound to mention mere words: I shall give you an excellent character, Mary--indeed I _have._ I think I have got a good place for you. I shall know to-morrow, and when it is settled we will look over my wardrobe together.” This proposal implied a boxful of presents, and would have made Mary's dark eyes flash with delight at another time; but she was past all that now. She interrupted Lady Bassett with this strange speech: “You are very kind, my lady; will you lend me the key of your medicine chest?” Lady Bassett looked surprised, but said, “Certainly, Mary,” and held out the keys. But, before Mary could take them, she considered a moment, and asked her what medicine she required. “Only a little laudanum.”