‘Well, yes, I suppose so. You see she has lived with me for years, and it never occurred to me that you would wish her to go. She will be very useful to you, Madeline; besides, she’ll be company for you while I’m away.’ To this Madeline said nothing. She felt she had no right to object to this arrangement, but she was sorry it had been made. However, for her husband’s sake she resolved to make the best of it, and to look upon Miss Forster henceforth as an affectionate sister and friend. One afternoon, about a month after the wedding-day, a carriage and pair drove up to the door of Forster’s town house, the large handsomely furnished mansion in South Kensington, and Forster, alighting, handed out his bride. ‘Welcome home, my darling,’ he said, giving her hand a tender pressure. Madeline’s heart bounded at the touch, and, with flushed cheek and sparkling eyes, she ran up the steps to the open door. On the threshold stood Miss Forster, with a distant smile and a cordial ‘how do you do?’ Madeline held forth both her hands, but the lady’s stately figure became more stately as she coldly placed her fingers in one of the palms, and graciously led the way into the house. Somewhat chilled at so cold a greeting, Madeline followed her through a stately hall into a handsomely furnished room. Madeline sat down, and Miss Forster paused before her. ‘If you will be so good as to give me your keys,’ she said politely, ‘your maid shall unpack your things. James asked me to engage one for you, and I hope she will give satisfaction.’ With a nod and a smile Madeline handed over the keys, and Miss Forster retired. Madeline sighed, leaned back in her chair, and looked around her. She was in the drawing-room of Hampden House, a spacious apartment, elegantly furnished in the most costly style. Her eyes, carelessly scanning the costly pictures which covered the walls, became suddenly fixed upon one. She leapt up from her seat, ran over to it, stood for a moment regarding it with tear-dimmed gaze. Then, raising herself on tiptoe, she pressed upon it her warm, ripe, trembling lips. It was a pretty little landscape, looking insignificant enough in its golden setting, but trebly dear to Madeline, for it was almost the last picture which poor White had painted. Saddened a little at the memory it brought her, she stood looking at it in a dream; she felt the tears roll slowly down her cheeks, the sobs contract her throat--she was growing almost hysterical, when a voice recalled her to herself. ‘Shall I show you to your rooms?’ She started, turned, and found herself face to face with her husband’s sister. Unable to hide her tears, she said, turning faintly-- ‘Thank you, I think I should like to be alone. I feel rather tired and depressed to-day.’ Miss Forster said nothing, but quietly led the way out of the room.