Meanwhile Nora found herself once more in the gorgeously furnished, splendidly decorated, and brilliantly lighted drawing room that had been the scene of her last night’s humiliation.  But she did not think of that now, in this supreme crisis of her fate.

Straight before her, opposite the door by which she entered, was an interesting tableau, in a dazzling light—­it was a sumptuous fireside picture—­the coal-fire glowing between the polished steel bars of the wide grate, the white marble mantel-piece, and above that, reaching to the lofty ceiling, a full-length portrait of Herman Brudenell; before the fire an inlaid mosaic table, covered with costly books, work-boxes, hand-screens, a vase of hot-house flowers, and other elegant trifles of luxury; on the right of this, in a tall easy-chair, sat Mrs. Brudenell; on this side sat the Misses Brudenell; these three ladies were all dressed in slight mourning, if black silk dresses and white lace collars can be termed such; and they were all engaged in the busy idleness of crochet work; but on a luxurious crimson velvet sofa, drawn up to the left side of the fire, reclined a lady dressed in the deepest mourning, and having her delicate pale, sad face half veiled by her long, soft black ringlets.

While Nora gazed breathlessly upon this pretty creature, whom she recognized at once as the stranger, Mrs. Brudenell slowly raised her head and stared at Nora.

“You here, Nora Worth!  How dare you?  Who had the insolence to let you in?” she said, rising and advancing to the bell-cord.  But before she could pull it Nora Worth lifted her hand with that commanding power despair often lends to the humblest, and said: 

“Stop, madam, this is no time to heap unmerited scorn upon one crushed to the dust already, and whose life cannot possibly offend you or cumber the earth much longer.  I wish to speak to that lady.”

“With me!” exclaimed Lady Hurstmonceux, rising upon her elbow and gazing with curiosity upon the beautiful statue that was gliding toward her as if it were moved by invisible means.

Mrs. Brudenell paused with her hand upon the bell-tassel and looked at Nora, whose lovely face seemed to have been thus turned to stone in some moment of mortal suffering, so agonized and yet so still it looked!  Her hair had fallen loose and hung in long, wet, black strings about her white bare neck, for she had neither shawl nor bonnet; her clothes were soaked with the melted snow, and she had lost one shoe in her wild night walk.

Mrs. Brudenell shuddered with aversion as she looked at Nora; when she found her voice she said: 

“Do not let her approach you, Berenice.  She is but a low creature; not fit to speak to one of the decent negroes even; and besides she is wringing wet and will give you a cold.”

“Poor thing! she will certainly take one herself, mamma; she looks too miserable to live!  If you please, I would rather talk with her!  Come here, my poor, poor girl! what is it that troubles you so?  Tell me!  Can I help you?  I will, cheerfully, if I can.”  And the equally “poor” lady, poor in happiness as Nora herself, put her hand in her pocket and drew forth an elegant portmonnaie of jet.