“It is only some gipsy girl who has been sleeping under the tree.  See, it begins to rain.  Do you not hear the large drops pattering upon the leaves?  If you do not put your horse on, you will get very wet.”

“I am not afraid of a few drops of rain.  The person seems in distress—­I must speak to her.”

At this moment the girl slowly rose from her seat, and revealed the faded, attenuated features of Mary Mathews.

“Mary!” exclaimed Juliet, shocked and astonished at the recognition; “what are you doing here?  The rain is falling fast.  Had you not better go home?”

“Home!” said the girl gloomily.  “I have no home.  The wide world is my home, and ’tis a bad place for the motherless and moneyless to live in.  My father is dead; Mr. ——­ seized our things yesterday for the rent, and turned us out into the streets; my brother is gone to Ashton to look for employment, and I thought this place was as good as another; I can sit here and brood over my wrongs.”

Juliet was inexpressibly shocked.  She turned to address a remark to her companion, but to her increasing surprise, he was no longer in sight.  A vague suspicion flashed upon her mind.  She was determined to satisfy her doubts.  Turning again to the girl, she addressed her in a kind soothing tone.

“Have you no friends, Mary, who can receive you until your brother is able to provide for you?”

“I never had many friends, Miss Juliet, and I have lost those I once had.  You see how it is with me,” she cried, rising and wringing her hands.  “No respectable person would now receive me into their house.  There is the work-house, to be sure.  But I will die here, beneath the broad ceiling of heaven, before its accursed walls shall shut me in.”

Juliet’s heart prompted her to offer the wretched girl an asylum; but she dreaded the indignation of her fastidious aunt.  Whilst she paused, irresolute how to act, the girl, emboldened by despair, suddenly caught hold of her bridle, and fixing her dim eyes upon her face, continued:—­

“It is to you, Miss Juliet, that I owe all this grief and misery—­yes, to you.  Had you been a poor girl, like myself, I need not have cared for you.  My face is as pretty as yours, my figure as good.  I am as capable of love, and of being loved; but I lack the gold, the fine clothing, and the learning, that makes you my superior.  People say that you are going to marry Mr. Hurdlestone; and it is useless for a poor girl like me to oppose the wishes of a grand lady like you.  But I warn you not to do it.  He is my husband in the sight of God; and the thought of his marrying you has broken my heart.  Despair is strong; and when I saw you together just now, I felt that I should like to murder you both!”

“Mary,” said Juliet, gravely, “you should not give ear to such reports—­they are utterly false.  Do you imagine that any young woman of principle would marry such a man as Mr. Hurdlestone?”