"What good?" The aged crone leant forward and clasped Joan’s gauntleted wrists with her dark, clawlike hands. "Oh, my blessed darlint! If you could only be married--to a real gentleman like him--and would forget all about that business, and that wretched chap, I should die happy, that I should! You have forgot him, haven’t you, dearie?" Mrs. Todd gazed anxiously at Joan’s gloomy, miserable, yet most beautiful eyes. There was a far away look--a look of mingled dread and aversion, as if beyond all, she could see some loathsome, terrible object. "Forget the curse of my life?" she bitterly exclaimed. "For, while I do not know where he is, if he is alive or dead, my life is accursed.... How dare I--love--care for--any good man, saddle any one’s life with my miserable folly, confess to any honest person my--my--association with _him_? Why, I blush and groan and grovel and tear my hair when I think of it, and if my uncle knew-- Heavens! he might curse me and turn me out of doors and leave me to starve! He does not love me as if I were his own child, I know that--how can he when he was at daggers drawn with my father all those years? And auntie, kind though she is, she is only his wife--she is good to me because he wishes her to be! They are only pleased with me because I please in society--people like me, like my looks--if they knew--if they knew--oh! my God!" She clasped her hands over her face, and writhed. The old woman’s features worked, but her brilliant, unearthly eyes were riveted firmly on her darling. "You were once a great fool, dearie! But don’t ’ee be a fool now, never no more," she said, sonorously, solemnly. "There was summat you once used to say, poetry, when you was home from school--it did go right down into my heart like a bullet dropped into a well--summat like ’a dead past oughter bury its dead.’ Can your uncle, or your aunt, or this lord who loves you, or you, or me, or the finest parson or king or pope or anything or body in this world, bring back one single blessed minnit, let alone hours or days? That’s where common sense comes in, as your dear dead par used to say to me often and often! No, you can’t bring it back, nor he can’t! It’s dead! He’s dead--that brute--and if he ain’t dead to you, he can’t worry or annoy you, bein’ in prison if he’s alive, as a fellow of his sort is safe as sure to be----" "Hush! For Heaven’s sake, Nana, don’t talk like that!" Joan trembled, and glanced a despairing, furtive glance out of the window--above the pots of arums, and prickly cactus, and geranium cuttings, where the long, attenuated tendrils of the "mother of thousands" in the wire basket dangled in the draught. Much and often as she thought of her past, that secret past which only this faithful old soul really knew the facts of, she felt as if she could not bear it put into words.