I was busy packing in my own room, enlivening my work by humming gay airs, just to make-believe to myself that I was very merry at the prospect of my visit to London. The door opened quickly, and Rachel came in, walking on tiptoe, with her hand to her lips in trepidation. Her face was as pale as snow, and large tears stood in her eyes. "My mother, my mother!" she said like one talking in her sleep. "I have seen my mother." "What do you mean, Rachel?" I cried quite panic-stricken; for I thought that her mother was dead, and she must have seen a ghost. "My mother--Mrs. Hollingford; you know her; you are her true daughter; I am nobody--a liar, an outcast. Oh, Margery! she did not know me. Am I changed? I was a child then. And she!--how sunken her eyes are, and dim!--she did not know me. 'And this is Miss Leonard!' she said; and I hung my false face, and curtsied from the distance, and ran away. Oh, my mother! Margery, Margery!" The strange confused words passed like light into my brain. First the room grew dark, and then so bewilderingly bright, that I could see nothing. But presently Rachel's white face, with its piteous look came glimmering towards me. I stretched out both my hands to her, but she melted from my touch; what colour of life remained in her face faded away from it, and she fell in a swoon at my feet. CHAPTER XIII. A messenger came to my door to tell me that Mrs. Hollingford was waiting to see me. Rachel, restored to her senses, was lying upon my bed with her face hidden on my hands. "Rachel," I said, "I must go to her; but before I go tell me, assure me, that what you have said is true, that you are truly the daughter of Mrs. Hollingford." "I am truly her daughter, Mary Hollingford," said Rachel (for I cannot but still call her Rachel); "I am John's sister. That is the secret I wanted to tell you one night, when you were jealous. But you would not listen. I have more, much more, to tell you; but go now. One thing I beg you to promise me--that you will tell her you have changed your mind about going to London. Let the Tyrrells go, and stay you with me--oh, stay with me! I want you so badly; and, now that I have once spoken, I will trust you with everything--all my wickedness and weakness, all my troubles and difficulties." She spoke entreatingly, and her tears fell over my hands as she kissed them. "I will stay," I said; and the sun began to dance on the walls, it seemed. "I will help you all I can; and, oh, how glad I shall be to let the Tyrrells go without me!" And then I went down-stairs. I found my dear old lady looking very sad and worn and anxious. I threw myself into her arms and sobbed on her neck. "What is this, my love?" she said. "Is it a mistake, after all? And whose is the fault? Is it yours, or is it John's?" "Mine--mine," I cried. "And I am not going to London. But you must not tell John this, because he might think--" "Think what?" she said smiling.