"No," she interrupted hastily, "it is not worth your while to make any pretence to us. We do not expect to have friends; we never thought of it till you came. In time we shall get used to the curse our father left upon us." "Jane, Jane," I said angrily, "how can you be so wicked?" "How can I help being wicked?" she asked. "I heard that it was prophesied of us that we should all turn out badly, because ill conduct runs in the blood." "You do not deserve to have such a mother," I said. "Oh! my mother!" she said in an altered tone. "But she has given all her sweetness to Mopsie, and--to John," she added, with an effort, a tear starting in her eye. "But I am my father's daughter. She would cure me too, if she knew of my badness; but she is a saint, and thinks no evil. I work hard at my books, and she calls me a good industrious girl. I will never pour out my bitterness on her. But if my father were here I would let him know what he has done." The hopeless hardness of her young voice smote me with pain, but I could think of nothing to say to her. I felt that she thought I had been false to John, and that her sympathy for him had stirred all the latent bitterness of her nature. "And how is the young lady at the Hall?" she asked suddenly. "Do you mean Miss Leonard?" I said. "Oh, yes--Miss Leonard," said Jane, dropping her eyes on the floor with a strange look. "Very well," I answered, thinking of the jubilee that was going on at the Hall. "There is more wickedness in the world than mine," said Jane still frowning at the carpet. "She is false, and you are false--every one is false. I only know of two grand souls in the world--my mother and John. But the wicked ones will prosper, see if they don't--those who are gay and charming, at least. Bad ones like me go down like a stone, and lie at the bottom." At this moment an eager treble voice was heard on the stairs, and the next Mopsie and I were crying, with our heads together, on the lobby. "Oh, Margery, Margery!" sobbed the little one--"dear, darling, _sweet_ Margery! why are you going away? You promised you would always stay. Oh, oh, Margery!" An hour passed before I could tear myself away from the child. Jane prepared luncheon, which was not eaten; but she did not attempt to share in our sorrow and caresses. When I turned from the door Mopsie was prostrate, weeping on the mat; and Jane was standing upright in the doorway, straight, stern, and pale. So I went sorrowing back to the Hall. And I had not seen Mrs. Hollingford. Had I seen her that day, had her errand of mercy not taken her away from her home and kept her away while I stayed, the whole current of my life and of the lives of others might have been changed. She would then have had no reason to come and visit me the next morning at the Hall, as she did.