And encounter her Giovanna did one dusky afternoon after she had been haunting the precincts of the Chase for more than a week. It was not in what was termed the shrubbery, but in the spinney that they met. News had been brought to the Hall that Dulcie Rigg was lying ill at the Tower, and after luncheon Ethel had walked across to inquire after the sick woman and make sure that she had all she needed. It was while on her way back that she came face to face with her mother. Ethel could not help feeling somewhat startled when thus suddenly confronted by the figure of a tall stranger clothed from head to foot in funereal black. The stranger came to a halt full in front of her, and the path being of the narrowest Ethel could not but do the same. It seemed to her that through the interstices of the veil two eyes of a strangely penetrative quality were eagerly scanning every feature of her face. “If I mistake not, you are Miss Ethel Clare, till lately known as Miss Ethel Thursby,” said the veiled woman in a low rich voice, which yet had in it a tone that thrilled the girl, she knew not why. “That is my name,” replied Ethel with questioning eyes. “I have come far to see you and speak with you,” went on the other. “Not that I wish to detain you more than a very few minutes,” she hastened to add. Then she paused, as hesitating what to say next. “My excuse for seeking you out and accosting you,” she presently resumed, “must be that many, very many years ago I knew your mother.” “Oh!” came in a low startled cry from Ethel’s lips. “You do not remember your mother?” said the stranger interrogatively. Ethel shook her head sadly, while tears gathered in her eyes. “I have heard something of your strange story, of how you and your father have been brought together again after having been separated for so long a time. But tell me this; does your father ever speak to you about your mother? nay, has he ever so much as mentioned her name in your presence?” Ethel hesitated a moment, then she said proudly, “I am at a loss to know why you, a stranger, should put such questions to me.” The stranger sighed; to the girl it sounded like the sigh of an overwrought heart. “I do not ask them as one having a right to do so, but simply because I knew and loved your mother when she and I were young together, and because I remember you, an infant, lying in her arms.” “If my father does not speak to me of her,” said Ethel softly, “it is probably because she is dead.” Then with a little catch of her breath, she added, “But you, who were her friend, doubtless know far more about her than I can tell you; indeed, I can tell you nothing.” The stranger’s bosom was rising and falling as if with some hardly suppressed emotion.