But, indeed, poor Mary did not look her in the face. She had put down her head in her hands, beaten by this storm. Though it was but the most timid reprisals, Mary felt that it was ungenerous to speak of her mother’s kindness--and, after all, was not Letitia right? for there never had been much in the vicarage to give. And it was true about the dress--it was that dyed silk which Mrs. Parke had given her, a silk richer than anything poor Mary would have bought for herself. It was true, also, about the fire in the bedroom, which was a luxury impossible in the vicarage. It might not be generous to remind her of these things, but still it was true. Letitia drew an angry breath of relief. She sat down again with the satisfaction of one who has achieved a logical triumph and silenced an adversary. “Look here,” she said. “I don’t think anything can be done to-night. We must just leave it. He’s done as much harm as he can. But if Lord Frogmore were to come to-morrow and find Ralph I should die. That is all about it. I should just die, rather than let that horrid old man see my brother in a velveteen coat, like a gamekeeper, and with the manners of a groom, I’d---- take chloral, or something. Now you know! I can’t bear it, and I won’t bear it. The Parkes were never very nice to me. And that old man as good as said--No, I will not bear it, Mary Hill. If he comes before Ralph is gone I shall be found dead in my bed, and you will be answerable, for without you he never could have got admission here.” “Oh, Letitia! don’t say such dreadful things,” cried Mary, raising a horror-stricken face. “No, I shall not say them, but I shall do them,” said Mrs. Parke. She was like one who has given a final decision, as she gathered up in her hands the train of her heavy velvet dress. “Good-night,” she said; “I may never say it again.” “Letitia!” Mary’s horror and trouble could find no words. “I can’t think--that you’d kiss me like Judas--and mean to kill me all the same,” said the possible martyr, withdrawing within the curtains which screened the door of her bedchamber. She heard the still more horror-stricken tone of Mary’s protest. “Oh, Letitia!” as she disappeared. Mrs. Parke was not afraid of a bold simile. She dropped her excitement as she dropped her velvet skirt, as soon as the door had closed upon her, and submitted herself to the hands of her maid with much calm. She had not the least doubt that Mary would lie awake all night, trembling over that threat, and that in the morning, by some means or other, her commands would be done.