"A precious bad one; not to put too fine a point upon it, he was a thief." "That will do, Charlie. Good night; good night, Lizzie." "Good night, Mrs. Lenoir, God bless you." "Thank you, my dears." In another moment Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess were again alone. The questions had been asked by Mrs. Lenoir with the distinct purpose of convincing the Duchess that she was acting in good faith and for the girl's good. She felt that she was on her trial, as it were, and out of the teachings of her own sad experience she gathered wisdom to act in such a way as to win confidence. On the Duchess the effect produced was convincing, so far as the man whose attention she had accepted was concerned; but a dual process of thought was working in her mind--one associated with the lover who would have betrayed her, the other associated with the woman who had stepped between her and her peril. "My dear," said Mrs. Lenoir, after an interval of silence, during which the Duchess had not raised her head, and Mrs. Lenoir was strengthening herself for the coming trial, "will you give me what information you can concerning yourself which will help to guide us both in this sad hour?" A pressure of her fingers answered her in the affirmative. "Keep your eyes from me till I bid you rise," continued Mrs. Lenoir, with heaving bosom. "Where do you live?" "In Rosemary Lane." "Have you lived all your life there?" "Since I was a very little child." "You were not born there?" "Oh, no; I do not know where I was born----" Mrs. Lenoir's eyes wandered to the window which shut out the night. She could not see it, but she felt that the snow was falling; "and," said the Duchess in a faltering voice, "I cannot remember seeing the face of my mother." "Tell me all you know, my dear; conceal nothing from me." In broken tones the girl told every particular of her history, from her introduction into Rosemary Lane, as the incident had been related to her by Seth Dumbrick, to the present and first great trial in life. "Look up, my dear." The Duchess raised her eyes, almost blinded with tears. Mrs. Lenoir tenderly wiped them away, and placed in the girl's hand the miniature portrait of herself, painted in her younger and happier days. "It is like me," murmured the girl.