The tea-things were there, waiting for her arrival.  Dolores would have helped her take off the red garment, but she shrank from it.  She had only her gaudy theatrical dress beneath.  How was she to go to London in it?  However, Miss Hackett devised that she should borrow the little maid-servant’s clothes, and Gerald undertook to send them back when Martha should have fitted her out at Brompton.  The theatrical costume Miss Hackett would return by a messenger without implicating Melinda Crachett.  They took the girl up-stairs to effect the change, and restore her as much as they could, and she came down with her rouge washed off, and very pale, but looking like herself, as, poor thing, she always did look more or less frightened, and now with tears about her eyelids, tears that broke forth as Gerald went up to her, took her by the hand, and said—-

“Brighten up, little sister; you have given yourself to me, and I must take care of you now.”

“Ah, I do beg your pardon, but my poor mother—-I didn’t know—-”

“You don’t want to go back?”

“Oh no, no,” and she shuddered again; “but I am sorry for her.  She has such a hard master, and she used to be good to me.”

Miss Hackett had come opportunely to make her drink some tea, and then made both take food enough to sustain them through the night journey.  Then, and afterwards, they gathered what had been Ludmilla’s sad little story.  Her father, in spite of his marriage, which was according to the lax notions of German Protestants, had been a fairly respectable man, very fond of his little daughter, and exceedingly careful of her, though even as a tiny child he had made her useful, trained her to singing and dancing, and brought her forward as a charming little fairy, when it was all play to her.

“Oh, we were so happy in those days,” she said tearfully.

When he died it was with an injunction to his wife not to bring up Ludmilla to the stage now that he was not there to take care of her.  With the means he had left she had set up her shop at Rockquay, and though she had never been an affectionate mother, Ludmilla had been fairly happy, and had been a favourite with Mr. Flight and the school authorities, and had been thoroughly imbued with their spirit.  A change had, however, come over her mother ever since an expedition to Avoncester, when she had met O’Leary.  She had probably always contrived a certain amount of illicit trade in tobacco and spirits by means of the sailors in the foreign traders who put into the little harbour of Rockquay; but her daughter was scarcely cognizant of this, and would not have understood the evil if she had done so, nor did it affect her life.  O’Leary had, however, been the clown in Mr. Schnetterling’s troupe, and had become partner with Jellicoe.  The sight of him revived all Zoraya’s Bohemian inclinations, and on his side he knew her to have still great capabilities, and recollected