“Stop, Henry!” cried Mrs. Dinneford, and with an alertness that was surprising sprung from the carriage, and was on the steps of their house before Edith's violent ring had brought a servant to the door. They passed in, Edith holding her place just in advance. “I will see Mrs. Barker,” said Mrs. Dinneford, trying to keep out of her voice the fear and agitation from which she was suffering. “You can go up to your room.” “It isn't Mrs. Barker. You are mistaken.” There was as much of betrayal in the voice of Edith as in that of her mother. Each was trying to hide herself from the other, but the veil in both cases was far too thin for deception. Mother and daughter entered the parlor together. As they did so a woman of small stature, and wearing a rusty black dress, arose from a seat near the window. The moment she saw Edith she drew a heavy dark veil over her face with a quickness of movement that had in it as much of discomfiture as surprise. Mrs. Dinneford was equal to the occasion. The imminent peril in which she stood calmed the wild tumult within, as the strong wind calms this turbulent ocean, and gave her thoughts clearness and her mind decision. Edith saw before the veil fell a startled face, and recognized the sallow countenance and black, evil eyes, the woman who had once before called to see her mother. “Didn't I tell you not to come here, Mrs. Gray?” cried out Mrs. Dinneford, with an anger that was more real than feigned, advancing quickly upon the woman as she spoke. “Go!” and she pointed to the door, “and don't you dare to come here again. I told you when you were here last time that I wouldn't be bothered with you any longer. I've done all I ever intend doing. So take yourself away.” And she pointed again to the door. Mrs. Bray--for it was that personage--comprehended the situation fully. She was as good an actor as Mrs. Dinneford, and quite as equal to the occasion. Lifting her hand in a weak, deprecating way, and then shrinking like one borne down by the shock of a great disappointment, she moved back from the excited woman and made her way to the hall, Mrs. Dinneford following and assailing her in passionate language. Edith was thrown completely off her guard by this unexpected scene. She did not stir from the spot where she stood on entering the parlor until the visitor was at the street door, whither her mother had followed the retreating figure. She did not hear the woman say in the tone of one who spoke more in command than entreaty, “To-morrow at one o'clock, or take the consequences.” “It will be impossible to-morrow,” Mrs. Dinneford whispered back, hurriedly; “I have been very ill, and have only just begun to ride out. It may be a week, but I'll surely come. I'm watched. Go now! go! go!” And she pushed Mrs. Bray out into the vestibule and shut the door after her. Mrs. Dinneford did not return to the parlor, but went hastily up to her own room, locking herself in.