Nothing could be more in contrast than the tones in which these two persons had spoken; the question had been earnest, almost fervent, and one which evidently was put in order to evoke an affirmative answer; the reply was given carelessly enough, or rather as though the thoughts of her who uttered it were absent from the matter altogether. “'_Very likely_,' Mary! Why, how can it be otherwise? Just run down and open the letter-bag; you know where to find the key.” “Yes, my Lady.” As Mary Forest left the room, she cast at her beloved mistress, whose eyes were fixed thoughtfully upon the pattern of the carpet, and observed her not, a look of unspeakable love and pity; and when the door was shut between them, she burst into a passion of silent tears. “It will kill her,” murmured she; “she can never survive this second trouble. Sorrow and shame, sorrow and shame, are all that fall to my dear mistress now. _How_ shall I tell her? May Heaven give her strength to bear it; but I wish, for her sake, that she was dead, and already the angel she deserves to be----Ah, you minx!” ejaculated Mary, interrupting herself as she passed Miss Aynton's room, and shaking her plump fist at its unconscious tenant; “you'll go to quite another place, and serve you right too.” And seemingly comforted by this reflection, she wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron, and hurried down the back-stairs upon her errand. “What will Arthur think?” mused my Lady, as she awaited her maid's return with a beating heart. “He will certainly connect the request to destroy that letter with what I said to him at the Watersmeet a while ago, about”--she did not utter the concluding words at all, but only formed them with her lips--“poor Ralph. If Arthur suspects, it will be with him the first step to knowledge; and yet he would never use it to my hurt. If there were anything amiss in the concealment of this matter, then I should fear him, for he is the soul of honour. But my bastard son--God help him, if he ever comes to know it--robs nobody even of this barren title, and my children's money is due to no one else. They might have been paupers as well as bastards; let their mother comfort herself with that thought all she can.” My Lady's lips were crooked into a bitter smile: hers was not a cynical face--far from it--and such an expression misbecame it sadly; it looked more like a contortion of the mouth induced by bodily pain.--“Well, Mary, is there no letter from Mr Arthur?” “No, ma'am; none.”