Anne Purcell was seated before her mirror, her long, brown hair, of which she was mightily proud, falling about her almost to the ground. She had a stick of charcoal in her hand, and was leaning forward over the dressing-table, crowded with its trinkets, scent-flasks, and pomade-boxes, staring at her face in the glass as she heightened the expressiveness of her eyes. Her glance merely shifted from the reflection of her own face to that of Mrs. Jael’s figure as she entered the room. They were not a little alike, these two women, save that the one boasted more grace and polish; the other more pliability and unctuousness, and perhaps more cunning. “Get me my red velvet gown from the cupboard, Jael.” “Yes, my lady.” “Have you seen the girl?” Mrs. Jael’s head and shoulders had disappeared into the depths of the carved-oak wardrobe. Her voice came muffled as from a cave. “Yes, my lady.” “What was she doing with herself?” “Sitting at her window, poor dear, and looking very low and sulky.” Anne Purcell turned her head to and fro as she scrutinized herself critically in the glass. She still looked young, with her high color and her sleek skin, her large eyes and full red mouth. Her style of comeliness seemed suited to the times, plump and pleasurable, full and free in outline and expression. My Lord of Gore had no reason to feel displeased at the prospect of possessing such a widow. “What do you make of the girl, Jael?” The tire-woman had turned from the wardrobe with the gown of red velvet over her arm. “The child is strange, my lady, and out of health. You might say that she had been moon-struck, or that she was watching for a ghost.” Anne Purcell moved restlessly in her chair. “Sometimes, Jael, I think that Barbara is a little mad. I am ready for you to dress my hair.” Mrs. Jael spread the gown upon the bed. “She doesn’t seem to have a spark of life in her, poor dear. I’m half scared often that she should do herself some harm.” My lady was watching the woman’s face in the mirror. “Oh—” “She’s always moping by herself like a sick bird. It often makes me wonder, my lady—” “Well?” “What Mistress Barbara does all those hours when she is alone. I have tried looking—” “Through the key-hole, Jael?” “Your pardon, but it is my concern for the child. I’ve started awake at night thinking I heard her cry out, and I have dreamed of seeing her in her shroud.” A flash of cynicism swept across Anne Purcell’s face. But she did not rebuke the woman for her sentimental canting. “The girl ought to be watched.” “Yes, my lady.” “She will not have Betty to sleep with her.” A sly suggestive smile on the face above hers in the mirror warned her that Mrs. Jael understood her in every detail. “What were you going to say, Jael? There is no need for us to beat about the bush.” “There is the little closet, my lady.” “Yes, next to Mistress Barbara’s room.”