The little one seemed to disarm her resentment. She held it closer to her, forgetful of its mother, and one of its little pinky hands went up now and clutched at her face. She could not help it. There was no one to see, and Rhoda seemed forced to obey an uncontrollable impulse. One moment her face was hard and stern; then there was a quiver, a softening of the muscles, the tears gathered in her eyes, and began to fall upon the little upturned face. "It at least is innocent," she muttered, as she held the little thing in her bosom, and kissed it tenderly again and again. There was a curious, yearning look in Rhoda Penwynn's countenance during these fleeting moments. Then, recalling her position, she hastily laid the child upon the rug, looking cold, hard, and stern once more, as she took out her vinaigrette, and held it to the fainting girl's face. "Oh, miss, is she ill?" cried Bessie, entering the room. "Yes," said Rhoda, coldly; "she has fainted." "Oh, miss," cried Bessie, reproachfully, "you have not been saying cruel things to her?" "And if I have, what then?" said Rhoda sternly. "Why, it's a shame--a cruel shame," cried Bessie, angrily. "Why did you come here to reproach her for what she has done? Don't you see how ill she is, perhaps not long for this world? Oh, Miss Penwynn, it's a shame!" Rhoda flushed with anger, but she would not speak. She told herself that she deserved what she had encountered by her foolish visit, and, stung by the girl's reproaches, and angry with herself, she hurried out of the cottage and hastened towards home. She was bitterly angry with herself, more angry against Geoffrey, whom, in her heart, she somewhat inconsistently accused of having caused her the degradation which she told herself she had suffered but now. She bit her lips as she thought of her folly in going there, for she told herself that every one in Carnac would know where she had been; and hardly had she writhed beneath the sting of this thought than she encountered old Mr Paul walking slowly along the cliff. She would have passed him with a bow, but he stopped short and held out his hand, in which she placed her own, feeling shocked to see how the old man had changed. "The old painters were right," he said abruptly, as he retained her hand. "Old painters? Right?" faltered Rhoda. "Yes, yes," said the old man, "when they painted their angels in the form of a beautiful woman. God bless you, my dear, you are a good, forgiving girl! I know where you have been." "Oh, this is horrible!" ejaculated Rhoda, as she hurried away. "I cannot bear it. What am I to suffer next?" She would have turned out of the path, but unless she descended to the rugged beach there was no other way back home; and, as if to make her miseries culminate, she had not gone another quarter of a mile before she met Miss Pavey, with a thick veil shrouding her countenance, and a basket in her hand.