She took both my hands in hers and looked me straight in the face.  “Never, while I live, Janet Hope, can I cease to love you,” she said.  Then we kissed and went on our way towards Deepley Walls.

“You are to dine with her ladyship to-day, Miss Janet,” said Dance the same afternoon.  “We must look out your best bib and tucker.”

Dance seemed to think that a mighty honour was about to be conferred upon me, but for my own part I would have given much to forego the distinction.  However, there was no help for it, so I submitted quietly to having my hair dressed and to being inducted into my best frock.  I was dreadfully abashed when the footman threw open the dining-room door and announced in a loud voice, “Miss Janet Hope.”

Dinner had just been served, and her ladyship was waiting.  I advanced up the room and made my curtsey.  Lady Chillington looked at me grimly, without relaxing a muscle, and then extended a lean forefinger, which I pressed respectfully.  The butler indicated a chair, and I sat down.  Next moment Sister Agnes glided in through a side door, and took her place at the table, but considerably apart from Lady Chillington and me.  I felt infinitely relieved by her presence.

Her ladyship looked as elaborately youthful, with her pink cheeks, her black wig, and her large white teeth, as on the evening of my arrival at Deepley Walls.  But her hands shook a little, making the diamonds on her fingers scintillate in the candlelight as she carried her food to her mouth, and this was a sign of age which not all the art in the world could obviate.  The table was laid out with a quantity of old-fashioned plate; indeed, the plate was out of all proportion to the dinner, which consisted of nothing more elaborate than some mutton broth, a roast pullet and a custard.  But there was a good deal of show, and we were waited on assiduously by a respectable but fatuous-looking butler.  There was no wine brought out, but some old ale was poured into her ladyship’s glass from a silver flagon.  Sister Agnes had a small cover laid apart from ours.  Her dinner consisted of herbs, fruit, bread and water.  It pained me to see that the look of intense melancholy which had lightened so wonderfully during our forest walk had again overshadowed her face like a veil.  She gave me one long, earnest look as she took her seat at the table, but after that she seemed scarcely to be aware of my presence.

We had sat in grim silence for full five minutes, when Lady Chillington spoke.

“Can you speak French, child?” she said, turning abruptly to me.

“I can read it a little, but I cannot speak it,” I replied.

“Nor understand what is said when it is spoken in your presence?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So much the better,” she answered with a grating laugh.  “Children have long ears, and there is no freedom of conversation when they are present.”  With that she addressed some remarks in French to Sister Agnes, who replied to her in the same language.  I knew nothing about my ears being long, but her ladyship’s words had made them tingle as if they had been boxed.  For one thing I was thankful—­that no further remarks were addressed to me during dinner.  The conversation in French became animated, and I had leisure to think of other things.