Louisa’s sad face brightened; Louisa’s faint heart beat quick.  A spark of her mistress’s spirit flew up into her eyes as she thought of the golden future.

“If you accept my proposal,” pursued Magdalen, “you can be asked in church at once, if you like.  I promise you the money on the day when the advertisement appears in the newspaper.  The risk of the housekeeper’s rejecting me is my risk—­not yours.  My good looks are sadly gone off, I know.  But I think I can still hold my place against the other servants—­I think I can still look the parlor-maid whom Admiral Bartram wants.  There is nothing for you to fear in this matter; I should not have mentioned it if there had been.  The only danger is the danger of my being discovered at St. Crux, and that falls entirely on me.  By the time I am in the admiral’s house you will be married, and the ship will be taking you to your new life.”

Louisa’s face, now brightening with hope, now clouding again with fear, showed plain signs of the struggle which it cost her to decide.  She tried to gain time; she attempted confusedly to speak a few words of gratitude; but her mistress silenced her.

“You owe me no thanks,” said Magdalen.  “I tell you again, we are only helping each other.  I have very little money, but it is enough for your purpose, and I give it you freely.  I have led a wretched life; I have made others wretched about me.  I can’t even make you happy, except by tempting you to a new deceit.  There! there! it’s not your fault.  Worse women than you are will help me, if you refuse.  Decide as you like, but don’t be afraid of taking the money.  If I succeed, I shall not want it.  If I fail—­”

She stopped, rose abruptly from her chair, and hid her face from Louisa by walking away to the fire-place.

“If I fail,” she resumed, warming her foot carelessly at the fender, “all the money in the world will be of no use to me.  Never mind why—­never mind Me—­think of yourself.  I won’t take advantage of the confession you have made to me; I won’t influence you against your will.  Do as you yourself think best.  But remember one thing—­my mind is made up; nothing you can say or do will change it.”

Her sudden removal from the table, the altered tones of her voice as she spoke the last words, appeared to renew Louisa’s hesitation.  She clasped her hands together in her lap, and wrung them hard.  “This has come on me very suddenly, ma’am,” said the girl.  “I am sorely tempted to say Yes; and yet I am almost afraid—­”

“Take the night to consider it,” interposed Magdalen, keeping her face persistently turned toward the fire; “and tell me what you have decided to do, when you come into my room to-morrow morning.  I shall want no help to-night—­I can undress myself.  You are not so strong as I am; you are tired, I dare say.  Don’t sit up on my account.  Good-night, Louisa, and pleasant dreams!”