“Of course, I shall never come near you, but there are plenty of quiet places where we can meet now and again to exchange confidences. I shall so love to know how you are getting on in this new sphere—I never dreamed, my dear, you would get such a chance as this. Of course, we are bound to drift apart a bit; you will be taken up with the duties of your altered position, but I know you will let me have a peep at you sometimes, that the wealthy Mrs. Morrice will not forget her humble friend. And just one last word; you must not come to me. The child is young; in a year or two he will forget you. If he meets you by chance in after life he will not recognize the mysterious lady who used to visit him in that little country cottage.” And so it was arranged in a very short space after the marriage. Little John Graham—for that was the name by which the unfortunate little creature was known, that of Darcy provoking too many painful reminiscences—was transferred from the kindly couple to the care of Alma Buckley, who petted and spoiled him to her heart’s content. And the years glided by very happily for Mrs. Morrice. Her youth had been hard, her young womanhood overshadowed by poignant tragedy; but she had a happy and facile temperament, and the scars of the past soon healed in this atmosphere of luxury and refinement. The two women saw each other from time to time, for Mrs. Morrice, unlike a great many people who have advanced in the world, did not develop the hateful quality of ingratitude. She felt she owed the woman whose acquaintance she had first made in the little old-world village of Brinkstone, a debt she could never repay. But for her stimulating advice, her staunch friendship, she would never have attained her present enviable position. And then, a few years before the opening of this story, came the first intimation of the second tragedy that was to wreck this unhappy woman’s life. She and Alma Buckley had met for lunch one day at an obscure restaurant, far off the beaten track, where they were never likely to meet anybody who would recognize the wealthy and fashionable Mrs. Morrice. As they were settling themselves for a long chat—for they could not meet very often and they always had plenty to tell each other—after the conclusion of the meal, Alma suddenly exclaimed: “Oh, Lettice, I had almost forgotten to tell you; such a strange thing happened last night. I was supping with a big party at Daisy Deldine’s—you wouldn’t have heard of her, I daresay, but she’s quite a ‘big pot’ in the music-hall world—and who do you think I met? But, of course, you will never guess. Our old friend George Clayton-Brookes, the second of the three sons. You remember the Brookes family at Brinkstone?” Of course, Mrs. Morrice remembered them well. Her cheek even now tingled at the recollection of the impudent conduct of young Archibald, whom her furious father had so soundly thrashed in the bar of the Brinkstone Arms.