into an energy—­a determination—­of which her soft young life had known nothing.  No one should write about her, or ask charity for her, she said to herself.  She had gone through the woods and round the park, which was not large, and now she could not leave these beloved precincts without going to look at the house.  Up to this time she had not had the courage to go near the house; but to the commotion and fever of her mind every violent sensation was congenial, and she went up the avenue now almost gladly, with a little demonstration to herself of energy and courage.  Why not that as well as all the rest?

It was once more twilight, and the dimness favored her design.  She wanted to go there unseen, to look up at the windows with their alien lights, and to think of the time when Lady Mary sat behind the curtains, and there was nothing but tenderness and peace throughout the house.  There was a light in every window along the entire front, a lavishness of firelight and lamplight which told of a household in which there were many inhabitants.  Mary’s mind was so deeply absorbed, and perhaps her eyes so dim with tears that she could scarcely see what was before her, when the door opened suddenly and a lady came out.  “I will go myself,” she said in an agitated tone to some one behind her.  “Don’t get yourself laughed at,” said a voice from within.  The sound of the voices roused the young spectator.  She looked with a little curiosity, mixed with anxiety, at the lady who had come out of the house, and who started, too, with a gesture of alarm, when she saw Mary move in the dark.  “Who are you?” she cried out in a trembling voice, “and what do you want here?”

Then Mary made a step or two forward and said, “I must ask your pardon if I am trespassing.  I did not know there was any objection—­” This stranger to make an objection!  It brought something like a tremulous laugh to Mary’s lips.

“Oh, there is no objection,” said the lady, “only we have been a little put out.  I see now; you are the young lady who—­you are the young lady that—­you are the one that—­suffered most.”

“I am Lady Mary’s goddaughter,” said the girl.  “I have lived here all my life.”

“Oh, my dear, I have heard all about you,” the lady cried.  The people who had taken the house were merely rich people; they had no other characteristic; and in the vicarage, as well as in the other houses about, it was said, when they were spoken of, that it was a good thing they were not people to be visited, since nobody could have had the heart to visit strangers in Lady Mary’s house.  And Mary could not but feel a keen resentment to think that her story, such as it was, the story which she had only now heard in her own person, should be discussed by such people.  But the speaker had a look of kindness, and, so far as could be seen, of perplexity and fretted anxiety in her face, and had been in a hurry, but stopped herself in order to show her interest.  “I wonder,” she said impulsively, “that you can come here and look at the place again, after all that has passed.”