"Oh, indeed!" said the lady, with an air of agreeable surprise. "And so you are Mr Tom. I am sure dear Susan has spoken often enough to me about you. I am only Miss Hartshorne's governess, you know, but I've no doubt we will be good friends as far as our respective positions will allow." Humility was one of her cards, you see, but it was thrown away on Tom: he was more shocked than pleased, as others more purse-proud might have been, at the contrast drawn. "This is my friend Allynne Markworth," he went on, hurriedly; "we ran down together for a week to dissipate the London dust. He and I are great friends, so I hope that we'll all be jolly together." Both inclined as if they had never seen each other before. Mr Markworth was remarkably deferential, with a concealed sneer on his lips, and the governess sweeping in her condescension. Some little commonplace expressions and conversation then passed between the party, and you would have thought it the most delightful trio in the world. All the while Susan Hartshorne was aloof from the party, seated in a corner of the half-furnished and half-lighted room, for the outside shutters were partially closed, and it looked as if it had not been inhabited for years--most probably a fire had not been lighted in its old grate since the squire's death. She was playing on an antique-looking organ, with its zigzag rows of metal pipes which nearly filled up one end of the apartment, a fitful sort of air which rose and fell every now and then with a shriek like the last despairing moan of one of the lost spirits in Dante's Inferno. Presently she ceased playing, and coming up to the others touched Tom on the arm. "Come, brother," she said, in a low, soft voice, without any inflexion in it; and, taking no notice of either the governess or Markworth, she led him gently towards the door. "You must see my garden," she continued, speaking to him as if they were alone, just in the same quiet tones. "I'll be back presently; pray excuse me," said Tom, as he went out; and Markworth and Miss Kingscott were left alone. The former was the first to speak. "So we've changed names, have we? Clara Joyce is dead, and Miss Kingscott reigns in her stead?" "Mr Allynne Markworth, however, is still flourishing, I see," she replied, in accents whose sarcasm was bitter enough and apparent enough without glancing at her scornful flashing eyes. "Yes, small blame to you; but I don't think you'll play any more tricks with me again. Well, that's long ago, and I can `forgive and forget;' I shan't rake up the past if you won't. You are here under an assumed name, and--but what's it to be, Clara, peace or war between us?"