The “ways” of the large simple-minded family, homely, yet kindly, so transformed Lady Mary’s graceful old rooms that they no longer looked the same place.  And when Mary sat down with them at the big heavy-laden table, surrounded with the hum of so large a party, it was impossible for her to believe that everything was not new about her.  In no way could the saddening recollections of a home from which the chief figure had disappeared, have been more completely broken up.  Afterwards Mrs. Turner took her aside, and begged to know which was Mary’s old room, “for I should like to put you there, as if nothing had happened.”  “Oh, do not put me there!” Mary cried, “so much has happened.”  But this seemed a refinement to the kind woman, which it was far better for her young guest not to “yield” to.  The room Mary had occupied had been next to her godmother’s, with a door between, and when it turned out that Connie, with an elder sister, was in Lady Mary’s room, everything seemed perfectly arranged in Mrs. Turner’s eyes.  She thought it was providential,—­with a simple belief in Mary’s powers that in other circumstances would have been amusing.  But there was no amusement in Mary’s mind when she took possession of the old room “as if nothing had happened.”  She sat by the fire for half the night, in an agony of silent recollection and thought, going over the last days of her godmother’s life, calling up everything before her, and realizing as she had never realized till now, the lonely career on which she was setting out, the subjection to the will and convenience of strangers in which henceforth her life must be passed.  This was a kind woman who had opened her doors to the destitute girl; but notwithstanding, however great the torture to Mary, there was no escaping this room which was haunted by the saddest recollections of her life.  Of such things she must no longer complain,—­nay, she must think of nothing but thanking the mistress of the house for her thoughtfulness, for the wish to be kind, which so often exceeds the performance.

The room was warm and well lighted; the night was very calm and sweet outside, nothing had been touched or changed of all her little decorations, the ornaments which had been so delightful to her girlhood.  A large photograph of Lady Mary held the chief place over the mantel-piece, representing her in the fullness of her beauty,—­a photograph which had been taken from the picture painted ages ago by a Royal Academician.  It fortunately was so little like Lady Mary in her old age that, save as a thing which had always hung there, and belonged to her happier life, it did not affect the girl; but no picture was necessary to bring before her the well-remembered figure.  She could not realize that the little movements she heard on the other side of the door were any other than those of her mistress, her friend, her mother; for all these names Mary lavished upon her in the fullness of her heart.  The blame that was being