“And yet she left you without a penny.  Oh, you must be a good girl to feel for her like that.  She left you without—­What are you going to do, my dear?  I feel like a friend.  I feel like a mother to you, though you don’t know me.  You mustn’t think it is only curiosity.  You can’t stay with your friends for ever,—­and what are you going to do?”

There are some cases in which it is more easy to speak to a stranger than to one’s dearest and oldest friend.  Mary had felt this when she rushed out, not knowing how to tell the vicar’s wife that she must leave her, and find some independence for herself.  It was, however, strange to rush into such a discussion with so little warning, and Mary’s pride was very sensitive.  She said, “I am not going to burden my friends,” with a little indignation; but then she remembered how forlorn she was, and her voice softened.  “I must do something,—­but I don’t know what I am good for,” she said, trembling, and on the verge of tears.

“My dear, I have heard a great deal about you,” said the stranger; “it is not rash, though it may look so.  Come back with me directly, and see Connie.  She is a very interesting little thing, though I say it; it is wonderful sometimes to hear her talk.  You shall be her governess, my dear.  Oh, you need not teach her anything,—­that is not what I mean.  I think, I am sure, you will be the saving of her, Miss Vivian; and such a lady as you are, it will be everything for the other girls to live with you.  Don’t stop to think, but just come with me.  You shall have whatever you please, and always be treated like a lady.  Oh, my dear, consider my feelings as a mother, and come; oh, come to Connie!  I know you will save her; it is an inspiration.  Come back!  Come back with me!”

It seemed to Mary too like an inspiration.  What it cost her to cross that threshold and walk in a stranger, to the house which had been all her life as her own, she never said to any one.  But it was independence; it was deliverance from entreaties and remonstrances without end.  It was a kind of setting right, so far as could be, of the balance which had got so terribly wrong.  No writing to the earl now; no appeal to friends; anything in all the world,—­much more, honest service and kindness,—­must be better than that.

VIII.

“Tell the young lady all about it, Connie,” said her mother.

But Connie was very reluctant to tell.  She was very shy, and clung to her mother, and hid her face in her ample dress; and though presently she was beguiled by Mary’s voice, and in a short time came to her side, and clung to her as she had clung to Mrs. Turner, she still kept her secret to herself.  They were all very kind to Mary, the elder girls standing round in a respectful circle looking at her, while their mother exhorted them to “take a pattern” by Miss Vivian.  The novelty, the awe which she inspired, the real kindness about her, ended in overcoming in Mary’s young mind the first miserable impression of such a return to her home.  It gave her a kind of pleasure to write to Mrs. Bowyer that she had found employment, and had thought it better to accept it at once.  “Don’t be angry with me; and I think you will understand me,” she said.  And then she gave herself up to the strange new scene.