“It seems unkind to leave Lady Tayne,” he said.  “I have never left her for so long, and never alone.”

“If you will trust her to me, I will take the greatest care of her,” said Miss Reinhart; “and I am sure, quite sure, that if Lady Tayne knew, she would insist on it—­she would indeed.  She would be the last to wish you to give up every pleasure for her sake.”

It was the thin end of the wedge, but she succeeded in driving it in.

He went.  It was the first time he had left my mother, but by no means the last.  He went himself to tell her that he had decided on going.  She was most amiable and unselfish, and told him what was perfectly true—­that she was delighted, and that if he would begin to go out without her she would be most happy.  I know that she was unselfishly glad, yet her sweet face was paler that night than usual; and once more I felt sure that there were tears in her eyes.

My father’s visit was prolonged for a whole week, and very much he enjoyed it.  He wrote home every day; but it did not seem natural to me that Miss Reinhart should be waiting for him in the hall, or that he should tell her all about his visit long before he went to my mother’s room.

But it was so, and my poor, dear mother did not know it.

CHAPTER VIII.

The first real rebellion, and the first time that the eyes of people were opened to the amount of influence and authority that Miss Reinhart had acquired in Tayne Hall.  One or two domestic matters had gone wrong—­nothing very much, but dinner was late several times, and the household machinery did not seem to run on as it had done.  My father complained; the cook did not evidently take so much pains.

“There is no one to look after her,” he said, with a deep sigh.

Miss Reinhart responded by another.

“Dear Sir Roland, can I help you—­may I help you?” she explained.  “Your housekeeper is too old; you will never do any good until you have another.”

“But,” said my father, “she has been here so long; she was my mother’s housekeeper long before I was born.  It does not seem right to send away an old servant.”

“You need not send her away, I said before; you might pension her off.”

“I will speak to Lady Tayne about it.  She has very peculiar ideas on that point.  I must see what she thinks about it.”

“Of course,” said Miss Reinhart, “you will do as you think best, Sir Roland—­and your way is, I am sure, always the best—­but I should have thought, considering the very nervous state that Lady Tayne always lies in, that it would have been far better not to let her know about it until it is all over.”

My father thought for a few moments, and then he said: 

“No, I should not like to do that; it would seem like taking an unfair advantage of her helplessness.”

Miss Reinhart blushed deeply.