"Yes, directly. I am glad I came down and caught you in the act. Shameful! Disgraceful! Liza, take out that parcel of food stolen from my brother." "No, no, Miss Margreet, only broken wittles, as would be thrown away." "Quick! Take it out, Liza. Now go." Liza stooped down, sobbing, and pulled the bundle out of the basket. "I always said you'd be the ruin of me, mother," she sobbed. "No, no, my dear," cried the woman; "Miss Margreet won't be hard on us. Let me have it, miss, do, please." "Go away!" cried Aunt Marguerite fiercely. "Pray, pray do, miss," cried the woman imploringly. "Go away, I say!" cried Aunt Marguerite, "and if you set foot on these premises again, you shall leave with the police. Go!" Poor Liza stood inside the door, sobbing, with the bundle of good things neatly pinned up in her hand, while Aunt Marguerite stood pointing imperiously with her closed fan, as if it were a sceptre, till Poll Perrow, with her basket swung once more upon her back, disappeared out of the gate. "Now, madam," said Aunt Marguerite, "the moment that young person in the drawing-room has gone, you shall receive your dismissal, and in disgrace." Volume 2, Chapter XX. A MEETING IN PAIN. George Vine sat in his easy-chair in front of the fireplace, gazing at the cut paper ornaments and willow shavings, and seeing in them the career of his son, and the dismal scene in the churchyard, with the rain falling and making little pearls on the black coffin cloth. He had not spoken for hours, but from time to time, as Louise laid her hand upon his arm, he had slowly taken and pressed it between his own before raising it with a sigh to his lips. "Don't speak to me, my darling," he had pleaded to her when he first took his place there that morning. "I want to think." She had respected his prayer, and in her endeavours to take her thoughts from the horrors which oppressed her she had stolen into her father's study, as an idea struck her, but only to come away sadly. Her visit had been too late; the cherished collection of marine objects were one and all dead. Her father looked up as she returned. He had not seemed to notice her, but he knew where she had been, and as he gave her a questioning look Liza entered the room. "Miss Van Heldre, miss." Vine caught his child's hand, as if too weak for the encounter; but, as the closely-veiled figure in black crossed the room quickly, and both realised the meaning of those mourning garments, Louise burst into a wild fit of sobbing, and turned away for a moment, but only to be clasped directly in Madelaine's arms. There was an earnest, loving embrace, and then Madelaine turned to Vine, laying her hands upon his breast, and kissing him as a child would its parent. "So much better," she said, in answer to the wistful, inquiring look directed at her. "I have come to fetch you both." "To fetch us?" faltered Vine with a horrified look.