The afternoon was tolerably free, for the gentlemen, including the elder boys, walked to evensong at a neighbouring church noted for its musical services, and Lady Merrifield, as she said, ‘lashed herself up’ to go with Gillian, carry back the remnant of the unhappy ‘Waif,’ and ‘have it out’ with Constance, who would, she feared, never otherwise understand the measure of her own delinquency, and from whom, perhaps, evidence might be extracted which would palliate the poor child’s offence in the eyes of Colonel Mohun. Both the Hacket sisters looked terribly frightened when she appeared, and the elder one made an excuse for getting her outside the door to beseech her to be careful, dear Constance was so nervous and so dreadfully upset by all she had undergone. Lady Merrifield was not the least nervous of the two, and she felt additionally displeased with Constance for not having said one word of commiseration when her sister had inquired for Dolores. On returning to the drawing-room, Lady Merrifield found the young lady standing by the window, playing with the blind, and looking as if she wanted to make her escape. ‘I do not know whether you will be sorry or glad to see this,’ said Lady Merrifield, producing a half-burnt roll of paper. ‘It was found in Mr. Flinders’s grate, and my brother thought you would be glad that it should not get into strange hands.’ ‘Oh, it was cruel! it was base! What a wicked man he is!’ cried Constance, with hot tears, as she beheld the mutilated condition of her poor ‘Waif.’ ‘Yes, it was a most unfortunate thing that you should have run into intercourse with such an utterly untrustworthy person.’ ‘I was grossly deceived, Lady Merrifield!’ said Constance, clasping her hands somewhat theatrically. ‘I shall never believe in any one again!’ ‘Not without better grounds, I hope,’ was the answer. ‘Your poor little friend is terribly broken down by all this.’ ‘Don’t call her my friend. Lady Merrifield. She has used me shamefully! What business had she to tell me he was her uncle when he was no such thing?’ ‘She had been always used to call him so.’ ‘Don’t tell me, Lady Merrifield,’ said Constance, who, after her first fright, was working herself into a passion. ‘You don’t know what a little viper you have been warming, nor what things she has been continually saying of you. She told me--’ Lady Merrifield held up her hand with authority. ‘Stay, Constance. Do you think it is generous in you to tell me this?’ ‘I am sure you ought to know.’ ‘Then why did you encourage her?’ ‘I pitied her--I believed her--I never thought she would have led me into this!’ ‘How did she lead you?’ ‘Always talking about her precious, persecuted uncle. I believe she was in league with him all the time!’