"Now what do you mean by that?" cried Miss Susan. "A work-room implies a dressmaker's establishment, and you tell us you were a lady's-maid." Jessy seemed unable to answer. "I don't believe you were at either the one place or the other. You are deceiving us, Jessy." "No," gasped Jessy. "Did you ever see Mr. Marcus Allen when you were in town?" "Mr. Marcus Allen?" repeated Jessy after a pause, just as if she were unable to recall who Mr. Marcus Allen was. "The Mr. Marcus Allen you knew at Aberystwith; he who came here afterwards," went on Susan impatiently. "Are you losing your memory, Jessy?" "No, I never saw the Marcus Allen I knew here--and there," was Jessy's answer, her face white and still as death. "Why!--Did you know any other Marcus Allen, then?" questioned Susan, in surprise. For the words had seemed to imply it. "No," replied Jessy. "No." "She seems queerer than usual--I hope her mind's not going," thought Susan. "Did you ever go to see Madame Caron, Jessy, while you were in London?" "Never. Why should I? I didn't know Madame Caron." "When Marcus Allen wrote to excuse himself from visiting us in the summer, he said he would be sure to come later," resumed Susan. "I wonder if he will keep his promise." "No--never," answered Jessy. "How do you know?" "Oh--I don't think it. He wouldn't care to come. Especially now he's married." "And you never saw him in town, Jessy? Never even met him by chance?" "I've told you--No. Do you suppose I should be likely to call upon Marcus Allen? As to meeting him by chance, it is not often I went out, I can tell you." "Well, sit up and take your breakfast," concluded Susan. A thought had crossed Susan Page's mind--whether this marriage of Marcus Allen's on Christmas-Eve could have had anything to do with Jessy's return and her miserable unhappiness. It was only a thought; and she drove it away again. As Abigail said, she had been inclined throughout to judge hardly of Jessy. * * * * * The winter snow lay on the ground still, when it became a question not of how many weeks Jessy would live, but of days. And then she confessed to a secret that pretty nearly changed the sober Miss Pages' hair from black to grey. Jessy had turned Roman Catholic. It came out through her persistent refusal to see the parson, Mr. Holland, a little man with shaky legs. He'd go trotting up to the Copse Farm once or twice a-week; all in vain. Miss Abigail would console him with a good hot jorum of sweet elder wine, and then he'd trot back again. One day Jessy, brought to bay, confessed that she was a Roman Catholic. There was grand commotion. John Drench went about, his hands lifted in the frosty air; Abigail and Susan Page sat in the bedroom with (metaphorically speaking) ashes on their heads.