They walked a few paces in silence, and then Miss Newton stopped suddenly to admire an approaching carriage. “What a stylish Victoria! Why, I declare there is Mr. Dalbrook, with a lady!” The carriage drew up as she spoke, and Theodore alighted. Marian had reddened a little at the mention of his name, but the flush upon her cheek deepened to crimson when she saw the lady in the carriage, and as the lady got out and came towards her the crimson faded to a deadly white. “Mercy, child, I am glad with all my heart to find you,” said Lady Cheriton, holding out both her hands. She was determined that there should be no doubt in the young girl’s mind as to her friendship and indulgence—that there should be nothing in the mode of her approach, in the tone of her voice, or the expression of her countenance that could bruise that broken reed. Love and pity looked out of those lovely southern eyes, which even in mature age retained much of their youthful beauty. Mercy Porter went towards her, trembling, and with eyes brimming with tears. The calm, self-restrained nature had melted all at once at those gentle words in the familiar voice which had given her words of kindness and of praise in her desolate childhood. The transformation filled Theodore with wonder. “Dear Lady Cheriton, I thought you would long ago have forgotten the wretched girl to whom you were once so kind,” she faltered. “No, Mercy, I have never forgotten you. I have always been sorry—deeply sorry for you. And when Mr. Dalbrook told me about having met a person who interested him—a person associated with Cheriton—I knew that person must be you. My dear girl, I thank God that we have found you. My cousin will call upon you to-morrow and talk to you about your future—and of our plans for making your life happier than it is.” “There is no need,” said Mercy, quickly. “I get on very well as I am. My life is quite good enough for me. I hope for nothing better, wish for nothing better.” “Nonsense, Mercy. His Lordship and I are your friends, and we mean to help you.” “I will accept help from no one, Lady Cheriton. I made up my mind about that long ago. I can earn my own living very well now. If ever my fingers or my eyes fail me—I can go to the workhouse. I am deeply thankful for your pity—but I ask for no more, I will accept no more.” “We will see about that, Mercy,” said Lady Cheriton, with her gentle smile, quite unable to estimate the mental force in opposition to her. She could understand a certain resistance, the pride of a sensitive nature painfully conscious of disgrace, unable to forget the past. She was prepared for a certain amount of difficulty in reconciling this proud nature to the acceptance of benefits; but she never for one moment contemplated an implacable resistance. “Let me see your friend, Mercy,” she said, “the lady who has been kind to you.”