’She took me through the same dark passage by which I had entered, and then I found myself in a large bedroom with low panelled walls, in the middle of which was a vast antique bedstead made of black carved oak, and every bit of furniture in the room seemed as old as the bedstead.  Over the mantelpiece was an old picture in a carved oak frame, a Madonna and Child, the beauty of which fascinated me.  I remember that on the bottom of the frame was written in printed letters the name “Chiaro dell’ Erma.”  I was surprised to find in the room another walking-dress, not new, but slightly worn, laid out ready for me to put on.  I lifted it up and looked at it.  I saw at a glance that it would most likely fit me like a glove.

’"Whose dress is this?” I said.

’"It’s yours, miss.”

’"Mine?  But how came it mine?”

’"Oh, please don’t ask me any questions, miss,” she said.  “Please ask Mr. D’Arcy, miss; he knows all about it.  I am only the housekeeper, miss.”

’"Mr. D’Arcy knows all about my dress!” I said.  “Why, what on earth has Mr. D’Arcy to do with my dress?”

’"Please don’t ask me any more questions, miss,” she said.  “Pray don’t.  Mr. D’Arcy is a very kind man; I am sure nobody has ever heard me say but what he is a very kind man; but if you do what he says you are not to do, if you talk about what he says you are not to talk about, he is frightful, he is awful.  He calls you a chattering old—­I don’t know what he won’t call you.  And, of course, I know you are a lady, miss.  Of course you look a lady, miss, when you are dressed like one.  But then, you see, when I first saw you, you were not dressed as you are now, and at first sight, of course, we go by the dress a good deal, you know.  But Mr. D’Arcy needn’t be afraid I shall not treat you like a lady, miss.  I’m only a housekeeper now, though, of course, I was once very different—­very different indeed.  But, of course, anybody has only to look at you to see you are a lady, and, besides, Mr. D’Arcy says you are a lady, and that is quite enough.”

’At this moment there came through the door—­it was ajar—­Mr. D’Arcy’s voice from the distance, so loud and clear that every word could be heard.

’"Mrs. Titwing, why do you stay chattering there, preventing Miss Wynne from getting ready?  You know we are going out for a walk together.”

’"Oh Lord, miss!” said the poor woman in a frightened tone, “I must go.  Tell him I didn’t chatter—­tell him you asked me questions and I was obliged to answer them.”

’The mysteries around me were thickening every moment.  What did this prattling woman mean about the dress in which she had at first seen me?  Was the dress in which she had first seen me so squalid that it had affected her simple imagination?  What had become of me after I had sunk down on Raxton sands, and why was I left neglected by every one?  I knew you were ill after the landslip, but Mr. D’Arcy had just told me that you had since been well enough to go to Wales and afterwards to Japan.