She found her aunt in her bedroom talking to Miss Rebekah Graves, a spinster whose brusque and didactic manner often gave offense. She had also a most annoying habit of dragging in her religious beliefs in ordinary conversation, and her intimate knowledge of the divine intentions of Providence was a constant source of wonder to her friends. Opposite as they were in character and beliefs, she and Madame Yvonett were warmly attached to each other, and Marjorie was thankful for the spinster’s presence, fearing as she did that her bad news might give Madame Yvonett another heart attack. As gently as she could she told her aunt of her financial loss. “Thee means, child, that my money is gone?” asked Madame Yvonett dully, as Marjorie came to a breathless pause. “Yes. The bank has failed....” “The Lord’s will be done!” ejaculated Miss Rebekah in devout resignation. “Thee is wrong, Rebekah; thy God and mine had no hand in the bank’s failure,” retorted Madame Yvonett, her keen sense of humor dominating her impulse to cry as the realization of her loss dawned upon her. “The devil who tempts men to wickedness has wrought _his_ will in this. What is thee giving me, Marjorie?” “Some cognac; you must take it, Aunt Yvonett,” noting the pallor stealing upward and the trembling of the bravely smiling lips. “You must not worry, dearie,” handing her the wineglass. “I have a feeling luck is going to change....” “Misfortunes never come singly,” prophesied Miss Rebekah, her pessimistic spirit surrendering at once to dismal forebodings. “Rot!” exclaimed Marjorie, darting an indignant glance at the spinster, who bridled at the disrespectful intonation of her voice. “You are not to worry, Aunt Yvonett; I’ll recover that money by hook or by crook. Cousin Becky will look after you until I return from seeing Mrs. Fordyce. I won’t be any longer than I can help,” and gathering up her belongings, she departed. The clocks were just chiming the hour of five when Marjorie reached her destination, and a footman in imposing livery showed her at once into the drawing-room. “Miss Langdon,” he announced, and disappeared behind the silken portières. At first Marjorie thought she was alone as she advanced into the room, then her eyes, grown accustomed to the softly shaded lights, detected a small, white-haired woman sitting in a large easy chair who rose as she drew nearer, and Marjorie saw that she was a hunchback. “I am glad you have come,” she said, taking the hand Marjorie held out in both her own, and leading her gently forward. “But, my dear, I thought you were much older,” her eyes traveling over the girl’s beautifully molded features and small, well-set head. The November wind had restored the roses in Marjorie’s cheeks, and she made a charming picture in her well-cut calling costume and becoming hat, both presents from a wealthy friend who had gone into mourning. “It was years ago that your mother wrote me of your birth....”