“He said,” she continued, “that she looked like a poor stricken thing condemned, and let herself be led back as submissive as a child, and Master Horace’s face was like the dead.  He didn’t think any one but the major and Dr. Danby saw her go, all was done in a minute.  But it was done, and some few had seen, and it got out, and things were said that wasn’t true.  Not the doctor!  No, miss, you needn’t tell me that; he’s told none, that I’ll warrant.  He’s faithful and he’s close.”

“O Mrs. Bentley, how dreadful for her, how dreadful!” and the girl went down on her knees by the old woman, her tears flowing fast.

“That’s it, miss, you understand.  I feel like that.  It was bad enough for Master Horace with the future before him, and his children to think of, but for her it was desperate cruel.  Eh, ma’am, what she went through!  She loved more than you’d have thought us poor human beings could.  And, after all, the nature was in her; she didn’t put it there.  I’ve had a deal to do to keep down sinful thoughts since then; there’s a lot of things that’s wrong in this world, ma’am.”

“What did she do?” Alice whispered.

“She!  She was for going away and leaving everything; she felt herself the worst woman in the world.  It was only by begging and praying of her on my knees that I got her to stay in the house that night, for she was so far English, and had such a fancy, that she saw everything blacker than any Englishwoman would, even the partick’lerest.  Afterward Master Horace was that good and gentle, and she loved him so much, that he persuaded her to say nothing more about it, and to try to live as if it hadn’t been.  And so she seemed to do, outward like, to other people.  But it wasn’t ever the same again.  Something had broken in them both; with him it was his trust and his pride, but in her it was her heart.”

“But the children—­surely they comforted her.”

“Eh, miss, that was the worst.  Poor lamb, poor lamb!  Never after that day, though they were more to her nor children ever were to a mother before, would she have them with her.  Just a morning and a good-night kiss, and a quarter of an hour at most, and I must take them away.  She watched them play in the garden from her window or the little hill there, and when they were asleep she would sit by them for hours, saying how bonny they were and how good they were growing.  And she looked after their clothes and their food and every little toy and pleasure, but never came in for a romp and a chat any more.”

“Dear, brave heart!” murmured the girl.

“Yes, ma’am, you feel for her, I know.  She was fair terrified of them turning Maori and shaming their father.  That was it.  You didn’t notice?  No; after you came she was too ill to bear them about, and it seemed natural, I dare say.  The Maoris are a fearful delicate set of folks.  A bad cold takes them off into consumption directly.  And with her there was the sorrow as well as the cold.  It was wonderful that she lived so long.”