“Where?” he said, stopping and listening; so that it began to seem possible to her that some such expedient might still be within her reach.

“It is to England,” she said, thinking he meant to ask as to which quarter of the world.

“Ah,” he said, shaking his head, “I fear that it is impossible.”

“But it is to set something right, which out of mere inadvertence, with no ill meaning,”—­No, no (she repeated to herself), no ill-meaning—­none!  “Oh sir, for charity! tell me how I can find a way.  There must—­there must be some way.”

He was greatly moved by the sight of her distress.  “I am but a stranger here,” he said; “I may be wrong.  There are others who can tell you better; but”—­and he shook his head sadly—­“most of us would be so thankful, if we could, to send a word, if it were only a single word, to those we have left behind, that I fear, I fear—­”

“Ah!” cried Lady Mary, “but that would be only for the tenderness; whereas this is for justice and for pity, and to do away with a great wrong which I did before I came here.”

“I am very sorry for you,” he said; but shook his head once more as he went away.  She was more careful next time, and chose one who had the look of much experience and knowledge of the place.  He listened to her very gravely, and answered yes, that he was one of the officers, and could tell her whatever she wanted to know; but when she told him what she wanted, he too shook his head.  “I do not say it cannot be done,” he said.  “There are some cases in which it has been successful, but very few.  It has often been attempted.  There is no law against it.  Those who do it do it at their own risk.  They suffer much, and almost always they fail.”

“No, oh no!  You said there were some who succeeded.  No one can be more anxious than I. I will give—­anything—­everything I have in the world!”

He gave her a smile, which was very grave nevertheless, and full of pity.  “You forget,” he said, “that you have nothing to give; and if you had, that there is no one here to whom it would be of any value.”

Though she was no longer old and weak, yet she was still a woman, and she began to weep, in the terrible failure and contrariety of all things; but yet she would not yield.  She cried:  “There must be some one here who would do it for love.  I have had people who loved me in my time.  I must have some here who have not forgotten me.  Ah!  I know what you would say.  I lived so long I forgot them all, and why should they remember me?”

Here she was touched on the arm, and looking round, saw close to her the face of one whom, it was very true, she had forgotten.  She remembered him but dimly after she had looked long at him.  A little group had gathered about her, with grieved looks, to see her distress.  He who had touched her was the spokesman of them all.

“There is nothing I would not do,” he said, “for you and for love.”  And then they all sighed, surrounding her, and added, “But it is impossible—­impossible!”