She smiled a little. "One objection arose to me when he first spoke—that you were the niece of Mrs. Edwin Barley. But I have grown to-day to think it may be well to overcome the prejudice. Do you know what Harry says?" I only shook my head. "He says, as Mrs. Edwin Barley brought (I must speak freely) a curse into our house, you may be destined to bring to it a blessing as the recompense. My dear child, I think it will be so." She inclined her head, and gave me a fervent kiss. I could have knelt to receive it. I pressed her hand as if I could not let it go. I watched her along the gallery to the west wing amid my blinding tears. I could hardly help lifting my voice aloft in thanks to Heaven for its great love to me. Hill came up the stairs and broke the charm. "Why, Miss Hereford, you have no light," she said and indeed my chamber was in darkness. "Allow me to light the branches, Miss." By the unusual attention—a solitary candle would have been good enough for me before—by the sound of her voice as she offered it, I saw she had heard the news. I could not help putting my hand into hers as she turned round from the lighted branches. "Hill, I hope you will forget that I used to cross you about that west wing. I did not know what it was, you see. But oh, if you had only told me! I would have been so true to you all." Old Hill put her candle down, that she might have her other hand at liberty; and she laid it upon mine, making it a prisoner. "Miss, it is I who have got to ask pardon of you for my crossness. We were all living in so much dread, that a stranger in the house brought nothing but extra fear and trouble. But I liked you through it all; I liked your face that morning years ago on the Nulle steamer at London Bridge. Miss, it is the same nice face still. And, Miss Hereford, I am not sorry to hear that you are to be for good at Chandos." "We shall be friends always, Hill." "I hope so, Miss. I shan't be here; I go with my lady." She went away with her candle. It gave me a shy feeling to think the news should be known to the household. But I soon found it was not known. Hill, the confidential attendant, it may be said friend, was made acquainted with all things, but she did not carry them forth to the servants under her. Emily and Dr. Laken dined with us in the oak-parlour. Lady and Mrs. Chandos dined in the east wing. Except that a subdued air pervaded all, even to the tone of our voices and the servants' tread, the meal and evening were just as usual. "Why did you never tell me you were a Keppe-Carew?" Emily suddenly asked me when we were alone together. "But I am not a Keppe-Carew." "Nonsense. Your mother was: it's all the same." "As a governess, I did not care to say that my family was good." "You were a little idiot, then, Anne Hereford. The Keppe-Carews are as good as we are—better, some might say; and so I suppose I must reconcile myself to the idea of your becoming my brother's wife."