That was very likely, I knew, as far as my mother was concerned.  But I was anxious to hear whether Olivia had not confided to her more of her secret than I had yet been able to learn from other sources.  To a woman like my mother she might have intrusted all her history.

“Did you find any thing out about her friends and family?” I asked.

“Not much,” she answered.  “She told me her own mother had died when she was quite a child; and she had a step-mother living, who has been the ruin of her life.  That was her expression.  ’She has been the ruin of my life!’ she said; and she cried a little, Martin, with her head upon my lap.  If I could only have offered her a home here, and promised to be a mother to her!”

“God bless you, my darling mother!” I said.

“She intends to stay where she is as long as it is possible,” she continued; “but she told me she wanted work to do—­any kind of work by which she could earn a little money.  She has a diamond ring, and a watch and chain, worth a hundred pounds; so she must have been used to affluence.  Yet she spoke as if she might have to live in Sark for years.  It is a very strange position for a young girl.”

“Mother,” I said, “you do not know how all this weighs upon me.  I promised Julia to give her up, and never to see her again; but it is almost more than I can bear, especially now.  I shall be as friendless and homeless as Olivia by-and-by.”

I had knelt down beside her, and she pressed my face to hers, murmuring those soft, fondling words, which a man only hears from his mother’s lips.  I knew that the anguish of her soul was even greater than my own.  The agitation was growing too much for her, and would end in an access of her disease.  I must put an end to it at once.

“I suppose Julia is gone to the new house now,” I said, in a calm voice.

“Yes,” she answered, but she could say no more.

“And Miss Daltrey with her?” I pursued.

The mention of that name certainly roused my mother more effectually than any thing else I could have said.  She released me from her clinging hands, and looked up with a decided expression of dislike on her face.

“Yes,” she replied.  “Julia is just wrapped up in her, though why I cannot imagine.  So is your father.  But I don’t think you will like her, Martin.  I don’t want you to be taken with her.”

“I won’t, mother,” I said.  “I am ready to hate her, if that is any satisfaction to you.”

“Oh, you must not say that,” she answered, in a tone of alarm.  “I do not wish to set you against her, not in the least, my boy.  Only she has so much influence over Julia and your father; and I do not want you to go over to her side.  I know I am very silly; but she always makes my flesh creep when she is in the room.”

“Then she shall not come into the room,” I said.

“Martin,” she went on, “why does it rouse one up more to speak evil of people than to speak good of them?  Speaking of Kate Daltrey makes me feel stronger than talking of Olivia.”