“I don’t know whether I ought to tell you, ma’am—­it is hardly a fit story for a young lady; but this Ruth Hilton was an apprentice to my sister-in-law, who had a first-rate business in Fordham, which brought her a good deal of patronage from the county families; and this young creature was very artful and bold, and thought sadly too much of her beauty; and, somehow, she beguiled a young gentleman, who took her into keeping (I am sure, ma’am, I ought to apologise for polluting your ears)——­”

“Go on,” said Jemima breathlessly.

“I don’t know much more.  His mother followed him into Wales.  She was a lady of a great deal of religion, and a very old family, and was much shocked at her son’s misfortune in being captivated by such a person; but she led him to repentance, and took him to Paris, where, I think, she died; but I am not sure, for, owing to family differences, I have not been on terms for some years with my sister-in-law, who was my informant.”

“Who died?” interrupted Jemima—­“the young man’s mother, or—­or Ruth Hilton?”

“Oh dear, ma’am! pray don’t confuse the two.  It was the mother, Mrs. ——­ I forget the name—­something like Billington.  It was the lady who died.”

“And what became of the other?” asked Jemima, unable, as her dark suspicion seemed thickening, to speak the name.

“The girl?  Why, ma’am, what could become of her?  Not that I know exactly—­only one knows they can but go from bad to worse, poor creatures!  God forgive me, if I am speaking too transiently of such degraded women, who, after all, are a disgrace to our sex.”

“Then you know nothing more about her?” asked Jemima.

“I did hear that she had gone off with another gentleman that she met with in Wales, but I’m sure I can’t tell who told me.”

There was a little pause.  Jemima was pondering on all she had heard.  Suddenly she felt that Mrs. Pearson’s eyes were upon her, watching her; not with curiosity, but with a newly-awakened intelligence;—­and yet she must ask one more question; but she tried to ask it in an indifferent, careless tone, handling the bonnet while she spoke.

“How long is it since all this—­all you have been telling me about—­happened!” (Leonard was eight years old.)

“Why—­let me see.  It was before I was married, and I was married three years, and poor dear Pearson has been deceased five—­I should say going on for nine years this summer.  Blush roses would become your complexion, perhaps, better than these lilacs,” said she, as with superficial observation she watched Jemima turning the bonnet round and round on her hand—­the bonnet that her dizzy eyes did not see.

“Thank you.  It is very pretty.  But I don’t want a bonnet.  I beg your pardon for taking up your time.”  And with an abrupt bow to the discomfited Mrs. Pearson, she was out and away in the open air, threading her way with instinctive energy along the crowded street.  Suddenly she turned round, and went back to Mrs. Pearson’s with even more rapidity than she had been walking away from the house.