“It is impossible to say,” returned the elder woman, quietly. “Mrs. Morris has been gradually sinking all this summer; she may linger for months, or she may pass away at any moment. It is not her present illness that has caused me to speak; as I tell you, I have intended doing so for days past. I have considered it my duty to put matters clearly before you.” She paused for an instant. Margery’s face was pained and sad; her heart was heavy with sorrow and dread; all sunshine seemed suddenly to have gone from her life, and, for the moment, Stuart, her lover, was forgotten. “Perhaps you will think me harsh,” Miss Lawson went on, “when I say that I consider it time you began to plan your future life. Remember, you are now about seventeen, and in another year--indeed, now--should take upon yourself the responsibilities of life. Hitherto you have been tended and cared for by two women. Lady Coningham has opened her purse generously, poor Mary Morris has lavished the wealth of her whole heart on you; but now, when she is taken from you, you will have but Lady Coningham to fall back upon; and, unless I judge you wrongly, I think you will grow weary of your dependence and long to be free. Don’t think me unkind, child,” continued Miss Lawson, putting a hand on the girl’s slender shoulder. “If I did not like you so much--if I did not know the good in your nature--I should not speak so plainly. But you must review your position. You are grown now almost to womanhood; you are educated above the level of many a girl of wealthier station; you have natural gifts that will aid you; and I say distinctly, you should shake yourself free, not with ingratitude, but with a sense of duty and independence. Believe me, Margery, in the long run you will be far happier.” “Yes, you are right,” the girl assented. She had followed each word and grasped the meaning instantly. Her natural pride was roused in one moment, and she felt a thrill of desire to add no more to her heavy debt of kindness--to be indeed free. “Understand me--you must not turn suddenly and be selfishly murmuring over the past,” urged Miss Lawson, who had been closely watching the girl. “Whatever happens, be grateful, Margery.” “I am--I am,” cried Margery, “thankful to all, and to you, for you have done so much for me, and now you come to help me again!”