“Ah, that is where her Spanish blood shows itself. An Englishwoman, pure and simple, would think only of her sorrow. My poor girl hungers for revenge. Providence may favour her, perhaps, but I doubt it. The best thing that can happen to her will be to forget her first husband, fine young fellow as he was, and choose a second. It is horrible to think that the rest of her life is to be a blank. With her beauty and position she may look high. I am obliged to be ambitious for my daughter, you see, Theodore, since Heaven has not spared me a son.” Theodore saw only too plainly that, whatever favour his hopes might have from soft-hearted Lady Cheriton, his own kinsman, James Dalbrook, would be against him. This mattered very little to him at present, in the face of the lady’s indifference. One gleam of hope from Juanita herself would have seemed more to him than all the favour of parents or kindred. It was her hand that held his fate: it was she alone who could make his life blessed. New Year’s Day was fine but frosty, a sharp, clear day on which Cheriton Park looked loveliest, the trees made fairy-like by the light rime, the long stretches of turf touched with a silvery whiteness, the distant copses and boundary of pine-trees half hidden in a pale grey mist. Theodore walked across the park with Lady Cheriton to the eleven o’clock service in the church at the end of Cheriton village. It was nearly a mile from the great house to the fine old fifteenth-century church, but Lady Cheriton always walked to church in decent weather, albeit her servants were conveyed there luxuriously in a capacious omnibus specially retained for their use. On the way along the silent avenue Theodore told her of his meeting with Miss Newton’s _protégée_, and of Juanita’s idea that the woman called Marian might be no other than Mercy Porter. “I certainly remember no other case of a girl about here leaving her home under disgraceful circumstances—that is to say, any girl of refinement and education,” said Lady Cheriton. “There have been cases among the villagers, no doubt; but if this girl of yours is really a superior person, and really comes from Cheriton, I think Juanita is right, and that you must have stumbled upon Mercy Porter. Her mother ought to be told about it, without delay.” “Will you tell her, or will you put me in the way of doing so?” “Would you like to see Mrs. Porter?” “Yes. I feel interested in her, chiefly because she may be Marian’s mother. I shall have to go to work very carefully, so as not to cause her too keen a disappointment in the event of Juanita’s guess being wrong.” “I do not know that you will find her very soft-hearted where her daughter is concerned,” replied Lady Cheriton, thoughtfully. “I sometimes fear that she has hardened herself against that unhappy girl. The troubles of her own early life may have hardened her, perhaps. It is not easy to bear a long series of troubles with patience and gentleness.”