"Not immediately. It may be weeks off yet. Mind--I don't assert that she is absolutely past hope; I only think it. It is possible that she may rally, and recover." "It might not be the happier for her," said Abigail, under her breath. "She is in a curiously miserable state of mind--as you no doubt saw. Mr. Duffham, did she tell you anything?" "She says she took a place as lady's-maid; that the work proved too hard for her; and that, with the remorse for her ingratitude towards her home, made her ill." "She said the same to Susan this afternoon. Well, we must wait for more. Good-night, Mr. Duffham: I am sure you will do all you can." Of course Duffham meant to do all he could; and from that time he began to attend her regularly. Jessy Page's coming home, with, as Miss Susan had put it, the vagabond manner of it, was a nine days' wonder. The neighbours went making calls at the Copse Farm, to talk about it and to see her. In the latter hope they failed. Jessy showed a great fear of seeing any one of them; would put her head under the bed-clothes and lie there shaking till the house was clear; and Duffham said she was not to be crossed. Her sisters got to know no more of the past. Not a syllable. They questioned and cross-questioned her; but she only stuck to her text. It was the work that had been too much for her; the people she served were cruelly hard. "I really think it must be so; that she has nothing else to tell," remarked Abigail to Susan one morning, as they sat alone at breakfast, "But she must have been a downright simpleton to stay." "I can't make her out," returned Susan, hard of belief. "Why should she not say where it was, and who the people are? Here comes the letter-man." The letter-man--as he was called--was bringing a letter for Miss Page. Letters at the Copse Farm were rare, and she opened it with curiosity. It proved to be from Mrs. Allen of Aberystwith; and out of it dropped two cards, tied together with silver cord. Mrs. Allen wrote to say that her distant relative, Marcus, was married. He had been married on Christmas-Eve to a Miss Mary Goldbeater, a great heiress, and they had sent her cards. Thinking the Miss Pages might like to see the cards (as they knew something of him) she had forwarded them. Abigail took the cards up. "Mr. Marcus Allen. Mrs. Marcus Allen." And on hers was the address: "Gipsy Villas, Montgomery Road, Brompton." "I think he might have been polite enough to send us cards also," observed Abigail. Susan put the cards on the waiter when she went upstairs with her sister's tea. Jessy, looking rather more feverish than usual in a morning, turned the cards about in her slender hands. "I have heard of her, this Mary Goldbeater," said Jessy, biting her parched lips. "They say she's pretty, and--and very rich." "Where did you hear of her?" asked Susan. "Oh, in--let me think. In the work-room."