“If you love your mother, and she loves you, run away now and join her, before the chains are tightened.  Your guardian is setting snares; little white rabbit, flee for your life, while escape is possible.”

She floated away like some dazzling gilded cloud, and a moment later her peculiarly light merry laugh rang through the hall below, as she ran down to join her mother.

CHAPTER XXI.

Unable to throw off the load of painful apprehension that weighed so heavily on her heart, Regina derived some consolation from the reflection that she was entirely alone in the house, and could at least escape scrutiny and curious criticism; for she hoped that Mr. Palma, forgetting her, would go directly from his office to Mrs. Tarrant’s, allowing her a reprieve until morning.  During the second year of her residence beneath his roof, she had at his request taken her breakfast with him, sitting at the head of the table, where Mrs. Palma presided at all other times.  Olga and her mother generally slept quite late, and consequently Regina now looked forward with dread to the tete-a-tete awaiting her next morning.

A few days subsequent to the Sunday afternoon on which her guardian had so unexpectedly accompanied her to church, she had been pleasantly surprised by finding in the library a handsome Mason & Hamlin parlour organ; on which lay a slip of paper, expressing Mr. Palma’s desire that she would consider it exclusively hers, and sometimes play upon it for him.  But an unconquerable timidity and repugnance to using the instrument when he was at home had prevented a compliance with the request, which was never repeated.

To-night the thought of the organ brought dear and comforting memories, and feeling quite secure from intrusion she went down to the library.  As usual the room was bright and comfortable as gas and anthracite could make it, and failing to observe a sudden movement of the curtains hanging over the recess behind the writing-desk, Regina entered, closed the door and walked up to the glowing grate.

Beneath her mother’s portrait sat the customary floral offering, which on this occasion consisted of double white and blue violets, and standing awhile on the hearth, the girl gazed up at the picture with mournful, longing tenderness.  Could that proud lovely face ever have owned as husband, the coarser, meaner, and degraded clay, who that afternoon had dared with sacrilegious presumption to speak of her as “Minnie”?

What was the mystery, and upon whom must rest the blame, possibly the lifelong shame?

“Not you, dear sad-eyed mother.  Let the whole world condemn, deride, and despise us; but only your own lips shall teach me to doubt you.  Everything else may crumble beneath me, all may drift away; but faith and trust in mother shall stand fast—­as Jacob’s ladder, linking me with the angels who will surely come down its golden rounds and comfort me.  Oh, mother I the time has come when you and I must clasp hands and fight the battle together; and God will be merciful to the right.”