"I didn't never mean to tell you the truth, but now that you are getting wild and willful, like your mother was, it's best for you to know it, and take her fate as a warning." Liane knew the accusation was not true, but she did not contradict it; she only sobbed: "Did my mother die of a broken heart?" "No, indeed, the minx; she got well and ran away again, and left you on my hands." "Is she living now?" "She is, for all I know to the contrary. But she takes good care never to come near me, nor to send me a dollar for your support." "I take care of myself, and you, too, granny." "Yes, the best you can; but she ought to help--the ungrateful creature!" granny exclaimed so earnestly that she could scarcely doubt the truth of her story. It was a cruel blow to Liane's pride, and up in her bare little chamber under the eaves that night she lay awake many hours sobbing hopelessly over her fate. "I would rather be dead than the daughter of a woman who was deceived and deserted! Mr. Devereaux would never give me a second thought if he knew," she sighed, with burning cheeks, as she sank into a restless sleep, troubled with dreams in which her hero's magnetic, dark eyes played the principal part--dreams so sweet that she grieved when the cold gray light of dawn glimmered upon her face and roused her to reality and another day of toil. Very eagerly the girls questioned her when she reached Miss Bray's as to granny's mood, and she answered quietly: "No, she did not scold me or strike me this time; she was kind in her way." But she did not tell them granny's way of kindness, for her heart sank with shame as she looked around the group of her light-hearted friends, thinking how different their lot was from hers; all of them having honorable parentage, and dreading lest they would not wish to associate with her if they knew she had no right to her pretty name, Liane Lester, that her wronged mother had simply picked it out of a story book. Miss Bray had a hurry order this morning--a white gown ruffled to the waist--so she set all the girls to work, and as they worked their tongues flew--they knew pretty nearly everything that had happened in the village since yesterday. The choice bit of gossip was that Miss Clarke's maid, Sophie Nutter, had left her, and gone to Boston. "They say she had a sick spell night before last, and went out of her head, talking awful things, so that the servants were quite frightened, and called up their mistress herself. Sophie had hysterical spasms, and accused Miss Roma of dreadful crimes right before her mother's face," said Mary Lang. "Miss Roma must have been very angry--she has such a temper," cried Dolly, as she threaded her needle. "Oh, Miss Roma wasn't present, and her mother took steps never to let her find it out, you may be sure." "It must have been something awful," said Lottie Day.