"And then--well then"--Mrs. Betts covered her face with her hands a moment, removing them with another long and miserable sigh--"my husband and I consulted--and we thought I might come to you and beg you, Miss Coryston, to plead for us--with Mr. Newbury and Lord William! You will be very happy, Miss Coryston--and we--we are so miserable!" Mrs. Betts raised her eyes again, and this time the tears escaped, ran lightly over her cheek, and fell on her blue silk dress. Marcia, who had placed herself on a chair near, felt uncomfortably touched. "I am sure nobody wishes to be unkind to you," she said, with embarrassment. Mrs. Betts bent forward eagerly. "Then you have heard? You know that John is to be turned out of his farm unless he will give me up?" But a quieter manner would have served her better. The answer came stiffly: "I cannot discuss Lord William's affairs." "Oh dear, oh dear, what am I to do?" cried Mrs. Betts under her breath, turning her eyes from side to side like a hunted thing, and twisting a rag of a handkerchief in her small right hand. Then, suddenly, she broke into vehemence: "You ought to listen to me!--it is cruel--heartless, if you don't listen! You are going to be happy--and rich--to have everything you can possibly wish for on this earth. How can you--how _can_ you refuse--to help anybody as wretched as I am!" The small, chubby face and slight figure had assumed a certain tragic force. The impression indeed was of some one absolutely at bay, at the bitter end of their resources, and therefore reckless as to what might be thought of them. And yet there was still the slight theatrical touch, as though the speaker observed herself, even in violence. Marcia, troubled, intimidated, watched her in silence a few moments and then said: "How can I possibly help you, Mrs. Betts? You shouldn't have come to me--you shouldn't, indeed. I don't know your story, and if I did I shouldn't understand it. Why didn't you ask to see my mother?"