“You are to do everything for me, Jane,” her mistress said, with a pathetic smile. “You are to be my sole companion all the rest of my life--unless, if it is not too late, that poor boy.” “Madam,” Jane said, putting her hand to her heart with a natural tragic movement, “you are not going to desert--the children? Oh, no! you are not thinking of leaving the children?” Her mistress put her hands upon Jane’s shoulders, clutching her, and gave vent to a low laugh more terrible than any cry. “It is more wonderful than that--more wonderful--more, ah, more ridiculous. Don’t cry. I can’t bear it. They have sent me away. Their father--has sent me away!” “Madam!” Jane’s shriek would have rung through the house had it not been for Madam’s imperative gesture and the hand she placed upon her mouth. “Not a word! Not a word! I have not told you before, for I cannot bear a word. It is true, and nothing can be done. Dress yourself now, and put what we want for the night in your bag. I will take nothing. Oh, that is a small matter, a very small matter, to provide all that will be wanted for two poor women. Do you remember, Jane, how we came here?” “Oh, well, well, Madam. You a beautiful bride, and nothing too much for you, nothing good enough for you.” “Yes, Jane; but leaving my duty behind me. And now it is repaid.” “Oh, Madam, Madam! He was too young to know the loss; and it was for his own sake. And besides, if that were all, it’s long, long ago--long, long ago.” Mrs. Trevanion’s hands dropped by her side. She turned away with another faint laugh of tragic mockery. “It is long, long ago; long enough to change everything. Ah, not so long ago but that he remembers it, Jane. And now the time is come when I am free, if I can, to make it up. I have always wondered if the time would ever come when I could try to make it up.” “Madam, you have never failed to him, except in not having him with you.” “Except in all that was my duty, Jane. He has known no home, no care, no love. Perhaps now, if it should not be too late--” And then she resumed her preparations with that concentrated calm of despair which sometimes apes ordinary composure so well as to deceive the lookers-on. Jane could not understand what was her lady’s meaning. She followed her about with anxious looks, doing nothing on her own part to aid, paralyzed by the extraordinary suggestion. Madam was fully equipped before Jane had stirred, except to follow wistfully every step Mrs. Trevanion took. “Are you not coming?” she said at length. “Am I to go alone? For the first time in our lives do you mean to desert me, Jane?” “Madam,” cried the woman, “it cannot be--it cannot be! You must be dreaming; we cannot go without the children.” She stood wringing her hands, beyond all capacity of comprehension, thinking her mistress mad or criminal, or under some great delusion--she could not tell which.