“And will they hang her, Sir?”

“That depends upon what she has done.”  And Newman eyed Mrs. Bread intently.

“It would break up the family most terribly, sir!”

“It’s time such a family should be broken up!” said Newman, with a laugh.

“And me at my age out of place, sir!” sighed Mrs. Bread.

“Oh, I will take care of you!  You shall come and live with me.  You shall be my housekeeper, or anything you like.  I will pension you for life.”

“Dear, dear, sir, you think of everything.”  And she seemed to fall a-brooding.

Newman watched her a while, and then he said suddenly.  “Ah, Mrs. Bread, you are too fond of my lady!”

She looked at him as quickly.  “I wouldn’t have you say that, sir.  I don’t think it any part of my duty to be fond of my lady.  I have served her faithfully this many a year; but if she were to die to-morrow, I believe, before Heaven I shouldn’t shed a tear for her.”  Then, after a pause, “I have no reason to love her!” Mrs. Bread added.  “The most she has done for me has been not to turn me out of the house.”  Newman felt that decidedly his companion was more and more confidential—­that if luxury is corrupting, Mrs. Bread’s conservative habits were already relaxed by the spiritual comfort of this preconcerted interview, in a remarkable locality, with a free-spoken millionaire.  All his native shrewdness admonished him that his part was simply to let her take her time—­let the charm of the occasion work.  So he said nothing; he only looked at her kindly.  Mrs. Bread sat nursing her lean elbows.  “My lady once did me a great wrong,” she went on at last.  “She has a terrible tongue when she is vexed.  It was many a year ago, but I have never forgotten it.  I have never mentioned it to a human creature; I have kept my grudge to myself.  I dare say I have been wicked, but my grudge has grown old with me.  It has grown good for nothing, too, I dare say; but it has lived along, as I have lived.  It will die when I die,—­not before!”

“And what is your grudge?” Newman asked.

Mrs. Bread dropped her eyes and hesitated.  “If I were a foreigner, sir, I should make less of telling you; it comes harder to a decent Englishwoman.  But I sometimes think I have picked up too many foreign ways.  What I was telling you belongs to a time when I was much younger and very different looking to what I am now.  I had a very high color, sir, if you can believe it, indeed I was a very smart lass.  My lady was younger, too, and the late marquis was youngest of all—­I mean in the way he went on, sir; he had a very high spirit; he was a magnificent man.  He was fond of his pleasure, like most foreigners, and it must be owned that he sometimes went rather below him to take it.  My lady was often jealous, and, if you’ll believe it, sir, she did me the honor to be jealous of me.  One day I had a red ribbon in my cap, and my lady flew out at me and ordered