"But, miss, I don't understand. I thought it was you who urged her ladyship to get it, and that you had quite a knowledge of gems." "I found out afterwards--I will tell you the secret, Parker, and you can break it to her ladyship when I am gone--I found out afterwards that I had made a slight mistake. The necklace was worth, say, about twenty pounds, but no more, for some of the pearls were quite worthless. I happened to show it to a gentleman I knew very slightly at the Belle Vue Hotel, and he deals in that sort of thing. He disappointed me in his estimate of the necklace; but that doesn't matter. It is terrible that it should be lost. Still, you might tell Lady Lushington what he said. There is no use in telling Mabel. She doesn't care twopence about it, poor child, at the present moment; she is so broken down at my leaving." "Well, miss, I must be off to do the packing. I will make the best of things and never forget how pleasant you have been during your visit, miss. I will see, too, that you have a basket of sandwiches and some wine packed for your journey." Parker went off. The moment she did so Annie went into the corridor and fetched Mabel in. "Oh, you goose of all geese!" she said. "Now the worst is over; I tell you the worst is over. You don't suppose for a single moment your aunt, Lady Lushington, will think that you stole the necklace or that I stole it. She will suppose, most assuredly, that it was stolen on the journey between Interlaken and Zermatt. Parker is convinced on the subject and I have let Parker understand that it was not nearly as valuable as I supposed. Lady Lushington won't trust me to manage a bargain for her again; that is the worst that can happen. Now, May, do cheer up. You are all right. I will manage things for you when Priscilla's Christmas bill comes round. You will see plenty of me, I fancy, between now and then. Dry your eyes, darling. I know you are sorry to part from me." "I can't go on being wicked without you; that's the principal thing," said Mabel. "I know I'll give in." "Think what injury you'll do me; and do you really want to go back to that horrid school?" "I don't think I'd mind so very much; it was peaceful, at least at school." "You would soon be sick of that sort of peace." "I suppose I should," said Mabel. She had already wiped her eyes, and she began slightly to cheer up. "Annie," she said eagerly, "is your uncle really dying?" "John Saxon says so; otherwise, of course, he would not have come," said Annie. "If," said Mabel, trembling a good deal--"if afterwards you could come back--" Annie's heart bounded. "I can't talk of it," she said; "don't speak of it now. When the time comes, if you--were--to write I will write to you, that is, if I have strength to write to any one. You have my address. You know how deeply I shall always love you. You know there is no good turn I would not do for you."