Covering her face with her handkerchief, she sobbed aloud, her whole frame shaking with the violence of her emotion. This lasted several minutes; then, gradually growing calmer, she wiped away her tears, rose, went to her jewel-box, and possessing herself of the little locket she had been looking on the previous night, returned to her chair by the fire, touched the spring, and again gazed mournfully upon the pretty child-face. She sat there for hours with the locket in her hand, sometimes looking at the picture, dropping tears upon the sweet face, pressing it to her lips; at others lying back among her cushions with closed eyes, while quick-coming memories of the past thronged through her brain. At length Mary became alarmed, and ventured in without being summoned. Her mistress was again gazing at the miniature, and seemed unconscious of her entrance until she stood close at her side. “A thousand pardons for intruding upon you, Madame,” said the girl, “but I grew frightened lest you had been taken suddenly ill and were not able to ring.” “See! look! tell me if you see any resemblance to any one,” said the Madame huskily, holding out the picture, the tears stealing down her cheeks. “No-o, Madame,” returned the maid doubtfully, gazing upon it with some surprise that she had never been shown it before--she who had deemed herself fully acquainted with the contents of her mistress’s jewel-box. “No?” cried the Madame irritably. “Look again. Well? Speak out; do not fear to offend.” “That young girl we had here yesterday--” “Well? well? go on; what of her?” asked the Madame, fairly struggling for breath in her excitement. “I can imagine she might have looked like this years ago.” “Yes, yes! I have thought so too;” and tears rained down the Madame’s cheeks. Mary’s curiosity was strongly excited, but she indulged in no questions or remarks in regard to the original of the picture; she had learned long since that her mistress would tolerate no prying into the secrets of her past life. She waited a moment in silence, then said soothingly, “Come, Madame, cheer up. Just consider how much you have to make you happy. Look at this beautiful room, this grand house--all your own; your elegant dresses too; your silks and laces and jewels; your fine carriage and horses; Katty and Rory and me to wait on you, and your loads of money. Why, Madame, who would not be glad to change places with you?” “You, Mary?” she asked, with sudden impulse, extending her maimed limb toward the girl, her breast heaving with sobs, her eyes full of passionate sorrow; “say, would you give your good right hand for all my wealth? to say nothing of my struggles for breath, and all the rest of it?” “I--I don’t know--” “I know you would _not_! Then don’t talk to me of how fortunate I am,” she said, heaving a deep sigh as she drew back the hand, laid her head against the cushions, and averted her face.