of the earl, who was Lady Mary’s natural heir, nor to feel herself separated from the house in which all her previous life had been passed.  But there had been gradually dawning upon her a sense that she had come to a crisis in her life, and that she must soon be told what was to become of her.  It was not so urgent as that she should ask any questions; but it began to appear very clearly in her mind that things were not to be with her as they had been.  She had heard the complaints and astonishment of the servants, to whom Lady Mary had left nothing, with resentment,—­Jervis, who could not marry and take her lodging-house, but must wait until she had saved more money, and wept to think, after all her devotion, of having to take another place; and Mrs. Prentiss, the housekeeper, who was cynical, and expounded Lady Mary’s kindness to her servants to be the issue of a refined selfishness; and Brown, who had sworn subdued oaths, and had taken the liberty of representing himself to Mary as “in the same box” with herself.  Mary had been angry, very angry at all this; and she had not by word or look given any one to understand that she felt herself “in the same box.”  But yet she had been vaguely anxious, curious, desiring to know.  And she had not even begun to think what she should do.  That seemed a sort of affront to her godmother’s memory, at all events, until some one had made it clear to her.  But now, in a moment, with her first consciousness of the importance of this matter in the sight of others, a consciousness of what it was to herself, came into her mind.  A change of everything,—­a new life,—­a new world; and not only so, but a severance from the old world,—­a giving up of everything that had been most near and pleasant to her.

These thoughts were driven through her mind like the snowflakes in a storm.  The year had slid on since Lady Mary’s death.  Winter was beginning to yield to spring; the snow was over, and the great cold.  And other changes had taken place.  The great house had been let, and the family who had taken it had been about a week in possession.  Their coming had inflicted a wound upon Mary’s heart; but everybody had urged upon her the idea that it was much better the house should be let for a time, “till everything was settled.”  When all was settled, things would be different.  Mrs. Vicar did not say, “You can then do what you please,” but she did convey to Mary’s mind somehow a sort of inference that she would have something to do it with.  And when Mary had protested.  “It shall never be let again with my will,” the kind woman had said tremulously, “Well, my dear!” and had changed the subject.  All these things now came to Mary’s mind.  They had been afraid to tell her; they had thought it would be so much to her,—­so important, such a crushing blow.  To have nothing,—­to be destitute; to be written about by Mr. Furnival to the earl; to have her case represented,—­Mary felt herself stung by such unendurable suggestions