This time it was Mrs. Rossiter and her daughters, and into Margery’s mind there flashed the thought, “Are all the Fergusons coming here to-day, and what would they say if they knew who my mother was?” But they did not know or dream of the exciting interview in the room above, where Reinette questioned so rapidly and impatiently the woman who almost crouched at her feet in her abasement and answered amid tears and sobs. The Rossiters had merely come to ask when Miss La Rue could do some work for them, and they left very soon taking grandma with them, to the great relief of Margery, who locked the door upon them, determined that no one else should enter until Reinette was gone and she knew herself why the truth had been withheld from her. Up stairs the talk was still going on, though the voices now were low and quiet as if the storm was over: but would the interview never end? would Reinette never leave her free to go to her mother herself and demand an explanation? Slowly, as it seemed, the hour hands crept on until it was twelve o’clock, and then at last a door opened and shut, and Queenie came down the stairs, her eyes red with weeping, but with a look of content upon her face which surprised Margery a little. “She cannot be very angry with mother,” she thought and her heart began to grow lighter as Queenie came up to her, and putting her arms around her neck, said to her: “Margie, it makes you seem nearer to me, now that I know your mother was my nurse, and I love you more than ever. But how white you are, and your hands are like lumps of ice. Are you sick?” she continued, as she looked with alarm at Margery’s face, which was as white as ashes. “Not sick, but a good deal upset with what I have heard,” Margery replied; “but tell me,” she continued, “what does mother say? Why has she never told you who she was?” “She says it was for your sake; that she feared lest I might think less of you if I knew you were the daughter of my former nurse,” Queenie replied, and looking earnestly at her, Margery asked: “And you believe this to be the only reason, don’t you?” “No, I do not,” Queenie answered, promptly. “It is true in part, no doubt, but there is something she did not tell me, and which I am resolved to find out. But I did not tell her so, she seemed so scared—so like a frightened child. Margery, I believe your mother is more than half crazy.” “Yes, yes,” and Margery caught eagerly at the suggestion. “You are right; she is crazy. I can see it now, and that will account for much which seems so strange. Oh, Queenie, be patient; be merciful. Remember, she is my mother.”