“Aunt Mary?” said Duke, with a tone of awe. Mar said nothing, but his pale face crimsoned over, and he never took his eyes from his aunt’s face. “I think she’s been in a kind of sleep all this time. Yesterday had a great effect upon her. She told me after, she had dreamed that there had been a great dinner and toasts, and one was to her old Frogmore. It has disturbed her mind, and she is going away.” “Oh,” cried Duke, “that’s not nice of Aunt Mary. My ball! I’ll go and beg her to stay.” Mar said nothing, but kept his eyes on Agnes’ face, watching her looks. “You may go and say good-bye to her; but not Mar. And don’t say anything of Mar, especially not as Frogmore. And Mar, my dear, you must keep away. She is so much excited already. You must not show yourself. She has found some old things she had before you were born, and I think her memory is beginning to awake. But, my dear, you must keep away.” “She does not seem to notice whether I keep away or whether I show myself,” said Mar. “Was ever such a thing dreamed of as that’s one mother--one’s mother! should cast one off. In all the books I have ever read there has never been anything like this.” “Do you think it is her fault?” said Agnes, with sudden anger. “How can I tell?” cried the boy. “It is no one’s fault, perhaps; but that does not make it any easier to bear.” “I could tell you whose fault it was,” cried Agnes. “Oh, nothing easier: but it is not your poor mother, the unfortunate victim, who is to blame.” Mar’s eyes blazed in his pale face. “Who is it? Who is it?” he cried. “Oh, what a wicked woman I am,” cried Agnes, suddenly coming to herself, “that I should try to make you hate another person who perhaps had not as bad a meaning as I think. Oh, Mar, don’t let us ask whose fault it was. Pray God only that it may be coming right--that my poor Mary---- You don’t love your mother, Mar.” The boy looked at her intently, keenly, with his bright, anxious eyes. He looked for a moment as if about to speak, and then turned hastily away. “Ah, well,” said Agnes, with a sigh, “perhaps it is too much to expect: but some time you will know better. She says that your father reproaches her; that his face in his picture is changed; that she has done something wrong and displeased him; but what it is she does not know. O, my poor Mary, my poor Mary! And there is only me to stand by her in the whole world.” Mar turned round again with his big eyes all veiled and clouded with tears. He tried to speak and could not. The boy was overwhelmed with feelings which were too strong for him, which he could not either master or understand. “There is the carriage going to fetch her,” said Agnes, “and I must go too. Good-bye, Mar. Oh, it’s a dreadful disappointment to me to go so soon, not to have any more of you. I was your mother when you were little, Mar. You were my baby, and now I don’t see you from year’s end to year’s end. Nobody thinks it is anything to me.” “Aunt Agnes----”