The Rhondda Leader

r ( Copyright. ) A GIRL OF THE PEOPLE. By MRS. C. N. WILLIAMSON", Author of "The Barn Stormers," "Fortune's Sport," "Miss Nobody," "Her Royal High- ireiis," "Lady Mary of the Dark House," Ac. SUMMARY OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS: Sheila Cope is taken by her mother to the theatre, and there sees two people who interest her strangely. One is a young man in the pit, to whom she is indefinably drawn, and the other a woman in the stalls. The latter catches Sheila's, eye and deliberately exposes a purple scar on her arm. Sheila is startled, for a similar scar on her mother's arm has been a mvstery to her since childhood. When Lady Cope notices the woman with the scar she hastily leaves the theatre, putting Sheila into a cab and bidding her drive back to the hotel. On her way home, the girl catches a glimpse of her mother and the woman with the scar seated in a four-wheeler. Subse- quently the young man of the Lyceum pit renders her an important service. When Sheila reaches the hotel her mother is not there, but presently arrives in a dying condition, with her right arm horribly scarred, and a fresh burn where the scar had been. Murmuring incoherently of "the scar—after all these years—revenge," and "the West Wing," Lady Cope dies of heart dis- ease. It is noticed that she was wearing a black opera-cloak instead of the yellow one in which she went out. Sheila instinctively connects this with the woman of the scar. Next day Sheila goes down to Arrish Mell Court, her Dorsetshire home, where her mother is buried. She resolves to carry out her mother's dying wish and investi- gate the West Wing. After a patient search, during which she is startled by mysterious noises, she finds nothing but a tiny key in the pocket of an old tea-gown of her mother's. Next day Sir Roger Cope, her cousin, who ignores his title and works as a solicitor, calls. He proposes to her, and when refused, tells her that she is not the daughter of Lady Cope at all, and, as the dead woman left no will, the property bolongp to himself as next-of-kin. CHAPTER VII. I ARRIVE AT A MOMENToas DECISION. "I can understand well enough, I exclaimed, bitterly, "why you should have wished to marry me if I had been the heiress that people have thought me. But why do you want me now ? Roger waved his hand towards a great mirror that went from floor to ceiling, on the wall of the "Indian boudoir." "Look at yourself," he said. Mechanically, hardly knowing what I did, I looked. Neyor before had I been critical of myself. But now I gazed searchingly at my own face—the one fortune that was left me. I was beautiful. Even 1 could see that. As I grew older, my hair might change its young gold for autumn brown but it was yellow as ripe wheat now, brown only in the shadows, where the waves curved inward. And my eyes were big, and dark, and soft. Suddenly, I felt very sorry for myself, because I was so pretty, and only eighteen because I seemed to have left youth and happiness for ever behind me, and there was no one whom I loved or had a claim upon to put kind arms round me, and let me cry my heart out on a sympathetic breast. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I crushed them back. Roger Cope should not see me cry. "I want you because you are the prettiest girl, and some day will be the most beautiful woman, on earth," cried Roger, speaking more warmly and impulsively than I had ever heard him speak. "I want you, too, because you are hard to win and I have always liked overcom- ing difficulties. Sooner or later, I warn you, Sheila, I will overcome this one, and you with it. I will! You might as well yield to the inevitable now." "It isn't inevitable. And I won't yield," I ItOutlY maintained. "You haven't proved any of your statements yet." I will, goon enough; or, rather, I can. ■But if y0U wjn promise to marry me, sweet, no one need ever know. You will marry as Miss "neila Cope, of Arrish Mell Court; and I will Come here to live, as your husband "You will come here to live, it may be, but not as my husband," I cut him short. "I shall have gone away before that." Where would you go ?" Roger asked, curiously, almost incredulously. "The world's a big place," I retorted, my Toice quivering with the sobs that would not quite be kept back. One tore its way up from my heart and, with two great tears running down my cheeks, I exclaimed: "Oh, if there were only somebody whom I belonged to I Roger took a step forward, and put out his hand, but I pushed it from me and his blue eyes flashed their resentment. "I believe," he ■aid, quietly, in the drawl which had so often ■tung me to impatience, that there are several persons with whom you are entitled to claim *inship, if you choose." I dashed my tears away, and gazed at him eagerly. "Tell me-tell me I cried. "How it that my moth—that Lady Cope took me "a her own child ? "She was very unhappy at the time. Five before she had lost her little son, whom • and her husband both adored. He died in °st tragic circumstances, which changed his other's whole nature. Sir Vincent and "nt Ermyntrude went abroad. There Sir mcent died also, and poor Aunt Ermyntrude ai?16 ^ack—not to her old home, but to London, it un^ei't°°k various charitable works, and int**8 s'le was SmnK "P her life to the °^iers ^at she met your mother." R 7 mother 1 I echoed, in a whisper. For j» 0nient I was powerless to ask more; but 9Uest* went on, without waiting for my "Your mother was also a widow, and very been' -i^OU were her only child, but, she had hardl anaong other misfortunes, and was trnj y ftble to provide for you. Aunt Ermyn- ftionth *aW ^0U—a pretty little thing a few jn i h8 °f age and, taking a great fancy to you, OWn er ^oneliness, offered to adopt you as her AunV t? m°ther finally consented, and as •eve rmyntrnde kpen living abroad for jn years with her husband, and her presence Wag 0 ,on had been known to none, nobody j Particularly surprised when she came home "i'h a baby not quite a year old. ba(j *new the truth from the first, because I ■, Tlsited Cousin Vincent and Aunt Ermyn- rude -broad, and knew that they had no child, We i to he told. And the vicar, old Mr. ask h y' was t°ld also, but we were both to keep the secret, and we always have." Ilu said that some of my people were still "Y Sa^' *n a 'trained voice. answer.^ mt?rh?r is living>" E°ger 1njetly track f Te ")een some Pains to keep Oourse ^er—for Aunt Ermyntrude's sake, of SOM ellow I did not believe that it had been Purnn sa^e but his own, and for some discover ^h to be on the point of Wiil, aTe y°= r mother's present address, if you I riJV"^ her> Sheila," Roger said. "Shall Sye V° you -i hefor.8' ?.said, "I want the address. But, ^VeaU..iWritlrl! like to see Mr. secret also that—he knew the y°u^ho?i°eS'" answered, gravely. "And ir8ee him. I understand what is in your \Veli* U helieve that I am deceiving you. to be' 1 .ls. natural, perhaps—though it's hard the mnSUdf!d bJ' .,he woman one loves. In *haii °f two witnesses, it is said, a truth ^hat \r es{ahlished and the sooner you hear the r" Westerley cun add to niy fitatcmcntj have v er fhall be pleased. Not—I wouldn't I'm think that for a moment!-—not that long not only too glad to have you stay here as to en.nl! °iU w'"> even if we are to be nothing ^ach oiher." s carriage down to Lull, and Cri<j<j • (\, 6stfrley to come out at once," I bit my ijp, ih« carriasrei were ltoger's. But 1 lei it pass. Untii I was sure, I would grant myself some privileges, with the beneflt oritie doi-bt Roger rang the bell, and then came back to me. From his pocket he to"k a sealed envelope. "The address you wanted," he explained. "I will go and leave you ah ne now. I can see that you would prefer that. After Mr. Westerley has been with you, and gone away again, you shall have a little time to think. Then I will come back, and you shall tell me what decision you have reached. It may be that you will look upon matters with a different eye. At all events, remember that while you have me, you are not friendless." He held out his hand, and though I felt the impulse to refuse it, I would not, lest htl should think it was because 1 grudged him the things that h'!d seemed mine. When the bell was answered, a servant was informed that the carriage I ordered might take Sir Roger Cope back to the inn before calling for Mr. Westerley. The vicar was a kind old man with a nervous manner, and the air of being slightly siartled when anyone addressed him. His greatest pleasure was collccting butterflies, a pastime which he infinitely preferred to the companion- ship of human beings. But because he was good, I knew that he would come to me without delay, and I was not disappointed. I could hardly wait to answer his questions as to my heal hand spirits when he arrived, but buist at once into the suhjret weighing on my heart. "Mr. Westerley," I asked, abruptly, "is it true that—that Lady Cope adopted me when I was a baby—that 1 was not her own child?" The wrinkled old face, with its long, narrow oval, and its high forelwad thatrhrd with white hair, flushed deeply, and looked more startled than ever. "Who—who told you this?" the vicar questioned, with an exaggeration of his usual slight stammer. "Sir Roger Cope," I answered. "He said that you, too, knew the story—only you and he in the world now since my—since Lady Cope is dead. I wouldn't believe it until I had seen you. But now I know—just from your face, even before you speak—that it's true." "My poor child! It is indeed true. But I had hoped-I knew that Lady Cope had not wished you ever to be told that you were not her daughter by birth, as you were in heart." We had both been standing up. In my im- patience I had n t given him the chance of sitting down but now I sank upon a sofa and covered my face with my hands. The vicar sat beside me, and laid his hand on my head. "Don't take it so hardly, my dear," he said. "She loved you and you loved her. That is the principal thing. I don't know why it was necessary for you to be told, though Sir Roger, no doubt,, did what he thought was his duty. But at all events, no one else need know. Nothing need be changed." "Everything is chinged I 1 exclaimed. "Be- cause everything that I thought was mine is Roger Cope's." Mr. Westerley sprang to his feet with an ejaculation of amazement or incredulity, "No!" he said. "No; that cannot be. Lady Cope was too just, too loving a woman, strange as were some of her ideaq. She brought you up to consider yourself an heiress "I'm a beggar," I broke in. "She left no will, so Roger says. He was her solicitor, and knew all her business. He told me that he had often advised her to make one, but she put it off. Yet it isn't that I care for. I—I've had eighteen happy years. I oughtn't to ask for more. If she had lived and loved me I wouldn't have minded being poor and leaving dear old Arrish Mell "Surely you—won't be called upon to leave ? stammered the vicar. For an instant I was tempted to tell him the story of Roger's offer and my refusal of it. But it seemed a dishonourable thing for a girl to do; and instead, I merely explained that, as everything now apparently belonged to Roger, who was, as far as I knew, Lady Cope's only surviving relative, I preferred not to be in- debted to him. "There are things I can do to earn my own living," I went on. "I speak French very well I sing and play I can paint a little and, thanks to poor Miss Fitch, my governess, who was wi'h me for so many years, I have a good all-round educa ion. I ought to find something to do." "If only I were not a miserable bachelor, my child, you'd not be at a loss for a home," said the kind old man. "Even as it is, I wonder if something couldn't be arranged. It's —it's unbearable to think of you alone in the world. But, thank goodness, it hasn't come to that yet. Sir Roger Cope is human. I have always, until now, supposed him a singularly high-minded young man. He will tell you to look upon this house as yours since he can't possibly want it -11 "I think lie does want it," I cut him short. "And anyway, it would never be home to me again—not for a day. It seems, too, that I'm not alone in the world. Roger says my mother is alive and he knows where I can find her. I shall go to her, Mr. Westerley." The vicar's face changed. "I—er—really my child," he faltered, "I shotild-sliotild do nothing rash if I were you. Better think it over; ta,lk with Sir Roger. Or let me talk with him if you prefer. Yes, that is better. I'll see him, and-- "Thank you, dear Mr. Westerley. He's at the inn, at Lull," I said. A sudden resolution had come to me. There was no use in arguing with this dear old man, who would never either see things as I did, nor make me see them with his eyes. I would let him go now that he had confirmed Roger's statement. And—when I was alone I would make up my mind. "Shall I go and find Sir Roger now?" he suggested, with subdued eagerness. I saw, or thought I saw, that he knew some- thing concerning which he feared questions- something which he did not wish to tell. "Yes. It is kind of you," I replied. "You have told me that the thing is true, and now- it will be better for me to be alone and think it all over. But is there another mystery, another secret about my real mother ? Why would it be rash to go to her ? Oh and Mr. Westerley evaded my search- ing eyes. II You can't tell how she may be situated now, that's all-of course, that's all. There's no mystery. No secret except that which unfor—which Sir Roger has told you. I'll go to him, my dear, I'll go to him. And later I'll come back to tell you the result of our conversation." In spite of his sympathy and kindness he was glad to get away, glad to escape from me. I saw that, and it made me think. But I troubled him with no more qtie ztious. If there were a secret I should soon, perhaps, find it out, for I had made up my mind to a very bold step. Mr. Westerley patted my hand, reassuring me fussily, as best he could and I bade him good-bye. Yet he suspected nothing. When he had gone I repeated the word with a sob. "Good-bye, dear, sweet old home that I have loved," I said, with wet, wide eyes that took in every familiar detail of the room. "Good-bye, everything that has been dear. You aren't for me any more." Then the tears which had been held back for so long splashed down. I broke open the envelope which Roger had given me and could scarcely see what he had written. There was more than an address; there was a letter offering me a regular allow- ance, which I at once resolved to reject. My mother's name I found was Mrs. Newlyn, and she lived at 35, Easel-street, Commercial-road, Peckham. Having read the letter I wrote a short. note to Mr. Westerley, another to Roger Cope. In both of these I said much the same thing, though I said it in very different ways. I told the two men-the old friend of my childhood, and the cousin who was a cousin no more—that I had decided to leave Arrish Mell at once. Delay would only be painful. I was ctoine to mv mother, and would stay with hot if she would keep me, though L intend d to find work and not be a burden upon her. In any case a letter would reach me if sent to her address. I ended my note to the vicar with grateful, affectionate words; Roger's closed stiffly and abruptly, for 1 could not make it otherwise. When I had finished, the hardest part of what I had to do was still to come. I had to tell the news to the servants, who had been at Arrish Mell Court for so many years that they had become old friends. It was hard for the loving, simple hearts to understand that I was actually saying good- bye. But they realised it at last; and Evans sorrowfully promised that, when Mr. Westerley and Sir Roger Cope should call after I had gone, he would hand them the notes I had written. There was no time to be lost if I would be away before either the vicar or Sir Roger Cope arrived. In the confusion of my mind at first I had not remembered the present need or money. But suddenly I flushed and quivered, with a humiliating thought. "Oh, Swift," I cried, "bring me the green purse that you put away when—we came back from town." CHAPTER VIII. WHAT I FOUND AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY. The purse I had desired Swift to bring me Was the one which had been in my charge on the night of terror and disaster—the purse that had been rescucd for me by a man whose face I had seen once or twice in my dreams since then. On that night it had held a considerable sum, but the money was all or nearly all gone now. There had been frequent calls upon it during the last day or two a; the hotel, and though I had supposed then that I should have plenty of my own by-and-bye, I had not cared to apply to Roger while there remained a fund that I conld draw upon instead. My hand trembled when Swift gave me the purse. She had been away in the next room longer than necessary it seemed, and I had been desperately impatient to know my fate. I was almost sure that, at most, there would be left me no more than twenty or thirty shillings, but what was my surprise when 1 saw sevenYright gold sovereigns. "Oh, I am so thankful I exclaimed. Ihis will last me a longtime." Then, even as I spoke, H. torrent of blood rushed up to my face. "Swift, how could you do it?" I said. "Don't you think I know ? Don't you think I understand ? "There's nothing to understand, miss," she returned, siolidly. "I'm sure I can't guess what you mean." "This is your money. You put it into the purse, knowing or suspecting that I would have nothing besides. It was very good, and I thank you but I can't take it. Tell me how much is yours, Swift, and how much was really there." "Oh, miss, as if I would have dared!" she asseverated. "If there's more in the purse than you expected, why, begging your pardon, it's 9 11 because of your careless way. You didn't know what you had. "No, but I'm sure "Do, do forgive me interrupting, dear miss," broke in Swift. "But it's too bad of you making out I'd have touched your purse—her ladyship's own purse it was, too. It's as much as to say I'm -well, I won't go onr miss, if you look like that. But do tell me you don't believe I would have done it. Now, miss," she hurried on, before I could do more than look what I felt, "I must be hurrying to get ready, too, if you can spare me." "Ready for—what ? I echoed. "Why, to go with you, to be sure." "I thought you understood," I said, sadly, I can't take you. I must go alone." She burst out crying. "Oh, miss, that's the last straw I must go with you. 'Twould be wicked to stand by and let you go out in the world alone-just like a little white lamb in its ignorance straying into the butcher's hands." "I am going to—my mother," I answered, I choking a little. "She—isn't very rich, and— and I fancy she mu-t live in a small house. She would not know what to do with a maid, and—besides, I couldn't pay you." "I wouldn't want a penny, miss, and I'd be a 'general,' sooner than leave you," persisted Swift, almost fiercely. I didn't know what she meant by a 'general,' associating that name only with high officers of the army, but I appreciated her intention. We were miserable together and when I went down to the carriage, there were all the others in the hall, not a dry eye among them. Somehow, I got through the good-byes, and took one last, long, yearning look at the old house as I and n v luggage were driven away. I left Lull at two o'clock in the afternoon. Three hours later I arrived at Waterloo Station. My thoughts had been so busy that the journey had not seemed long. Indeed, I had almost dreaded the end, because of the necessity for action it would entail and besides, I had begun half to repent my rashness in flinging myself upon the world before I was absolutely certain that I could have my mother's protection. When she had been at a distance, I had looked upon her as a sure refuge. Roger had given me her address, and had said positively that she was to be found there. I was her daughter, and it had seemed natural that when the floods of disaster had swept me ofÏ my feet, I should try to grasp her hand. Easel-street, Commercial-road, meant nothing definite to me. I vaguely thought of Peckham as a suburb, and I had some dim picture in my mind of a neat little ivy-draped brick house in a small garden, such as I had often seen in the village of Lull. The London I had known best was the region of parks, big splendid houses, and smart shops. I was not foolish enough to suppose that my mother, who had been described as poor, had her home in such a neighbourhood as that, but, as I was driven through street after street, even meaner and more squalid than the ones I had seen on the night I followed Lady Cope from the Lyceum Theatre, I grew sad and amazed. Was it possible that, while all my life 1 had lived among beautiful things, the woman who had brought me into the world had been—here ? At last we turned into a narrow street, lined on either side with little grey houses, all exactly alike. It was as if a wall of dirty brick stretched along, with low doors and windows cut into it at intervals; for there was no separation between the houses. Each hovel had a door of its own, with a window on the ground-lloor; and above, two more windows. On the broken pavement, or in the gutters, ragged children swarmed dwarfish girls carrying 11 big-headed, squalling babies almost as large as themselves toddling boys, with red-rimmed eyes and grimy faces. The babies all seemed to be crying; their young nurses shrilly bidding them be still, or exhort- ing the boys who shouted over their games to come home at once if they did not wish various horrible consequences to befall them. It was a dreadful street; the worst I had ever seen, and I wished that my driver would make haste in passing through. But, to my surprised alarm, he stopped, drawing up the cab at the pavement. "He is going to inqu-re the way," I thought. Yet no he was clambering slowly off the box. I looked out. We were exactly in front of a door cut in the long grey wall of blackened brick. Over the door was a number- 35. My heart gave a leap, and I almost called out a protest. It could not be true. Any place but this. The driver opened the cab door. "Here you are, miss; 35, Easel-street," he said, seeing that I sat still. "Oh, it can't be the right Easel-street 1" I exclaimed, tremulously. "Easel-street, Commercial-road. There ain't no other of the same name, miss. Shall I knock "If yon please," I meekly answered. "And— and don't take down the luggage yet. I'll wait and see if-if- My voice died. I did not finish the sentence. There was no bell on the door, which stood aiar. The cabman knocked loudly, From the i two upper windows the frowsy heads of several children and a bold looking young woman appeared. They stared with open mouthed curiosity at me and the four smart new boxes heaped on the Jour-wheeler. I shrank back, and wound my fingers nervously together. "What d'you ivant shrilly demanded the woman. Miggits or Newlyn ? I drew my breath in sharply. My mother's name! There was no mistake, then. The cabman turned questioningly to me, and I realised that I must answer. "I want Mrs. Newlyn," I reluctantly thrust out my head to explain. "Owh!" returned the dweller on the upper floor, "I'm Miggits. Newlyn's the ground- floor. As my informant partially withdrew, a girl's face shewed itself in the crack of the door; then the door was thrown wide open. She was about fifteen, with pale unwholesome skin, a pert nose, and an aggressive fringe of drab- coloured hair. She fixed a pair of light blue eyes upon me, and slowly I descended from the cab, which seemed the only link left between me and familiar decencies of civilisation. "Is Mrs. Newlyn at home ? I inquired, in a voice which did not sound like mine, so dull and toneless was it. "Yes, ma's 'ome." (I started.) "D'ye want to see 'er ? "If you please. May I-may I walk in ? Already half the swarming population of Easel- street had come to its doors and windows to enjoy the sight-such as it was. I felt curiously giddy. The suggestion in one of the first three words this girl had spoken had caught me.by the throat. I entered the narrow passage, having again bidden the cab- man wait; and the close odour of the house added to my faintness. A door a few feet down the passage was opened, and I had a dim im- pression that my companion was bidding me follow her into a room beyond. I obeyed, and then almost recoiled as I parsed the threshold. The room could not have been more than twelve feet square. The boards of the floor were uncovered, and not too clean the low ceiling was blackened with smoke, and the wall, destitute of paper, was decorated with a few glaring, unframed chromo-lithographs, held in place with pins. In one corner was a tumbled bed, covered, pillows and all, with a dark calico quilt. There was one unclothed deal table, spread with a few common dishes and a tin or two there were three or four rough wooden chairs a big box, heaped with a strange medley of cooking utensils and women's outdoor wraps a mantelshelf, littered with odds and ends; and a kitchen range, into which a woman, with her back turned to me, was throwing a few coals from a battered shovel. "Ma, 'ere's a IJdy to see you," brusquely announced my guide. The woman turned, shovel in hand. My eyes sought her face wistfully, imploringly, for the one gleam of hope left. But the last flicker died as our eyes met. No subtle voice of nature cried out in my heart: "This is your mother; you are of one flesh and blood." She was a tall, thin woman who might once have been pretty, even ladylike-looking in better days, but there was hardly a vestige of past beauty remaining, though in years she was not really old. Her scanty, grizzled hair was pulled carelessly back from a lined foreheac. Her small mouth had a fretful drop; slightly open, in surprise at sight of the visitor, it shewed that one front tooth was gone. The cheeks were hollowed in, the well-cut nose sharpened, the complexion of the uniform, faded grey most fashionable in Easel-street among those who were not over- florid. She wore a rusty black dress, and a coloured cotton handkerchief was tied round the thin throat instead of a collar. My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. It seemed physically impossible to tell her who I was, to ask her if she were not my mother. But they were both waiting for my explanations. I had to speak. "1-1 hope A few lame words had c me stammeringly, when the elder of the two broke in. "If you're one of those district visitors, why, I can just tell you as I told the last one, that you ain't wanted here," she said, acidly, with a rather better accent than the girl's. "I—my name is Cope," I stammered. At least, I always thought it was until to-day." Still she stared at me, with little, if any, awakening comprehension in her eyes. I blundered desperately on. "Perhaps, if you don't know what I mean it may be a mistake after all. But Lady Cope is dead. I was brought up to believe her my mother, and now Suddenly the woman's pale face changed and reddened with a vivid flush. The small fire- shovel she had been grasping slid out of her hand and fell to the floor with a metallic crash. "My goodness, gracious me she ejaculated, with a gasp. "It's Jenny." A faint shiver ran through me. I was not even "Sheila" any more. I was "Jenny." "I heard to-day that--t hat- I faltered. I could not go on. But she took up the words with a shy, awlnvard sort of eagerness, as if she were half-afraid of me while the girl stood by, wide-eyed and dumb in bewilder- ment. "Did they tell you the whole story ? Did they tell you who I was, and all ? "Sir Roger Cope told me that you were—my mother," ] said, dully. Well, I never! He told you that! And after Lady Cope making me swear I'd never breathe a. word to a soul so long as I lived." Oh, ma, it ain't true, is it?" cried the girl. "She ain't my sister?" "Hold your tongue and mind your own busi- ness, was the sharp answer and I felt, rather than saw, the flounce of her poor skirts and the toss of her towsled head that the girl gave. The woman looked keenly at me, her face still flushed and excited, half-suspicious; but she did not take a step nearer. "I don't think Lady Cope meant, me to be told, "I answered, choking bllek a sob. "But Roger knew from the first. Moth—Lady Cope only died a few, days ago, though it seems a long, long time." "You heard to-day, and you came straight here to see me," said my newly-found mother, reflectively. "Well, that was very good of you, my dear, that it was. I oily ii-isli I bad better house for you to come to. B,it I haven't, h,d any luck. Totsey, get the young lady a chair. Deiir me, I wonder now if you'd let mo make you a cup o' tea ? She still spoke to me as to a stranger of another class from hers, a visitor who must be entertained. She was nervous, and suddenly she became a pathetic figure in my eyes, though I had no stirrings of love. Perhaps this was unnatural, hard-hearted. I cannot help that, for I must paint the picture truly. I could have screamed or broken into hysterics as Totsey rather sullenly placed a chair for me but I almost fell into it. "Is-is it possible that this is my sister?" I forced myself to ask. "Your half-sister," was the quick reply, as if there were relief in responding to definite questions. "After Lady Cope adopted you—it was'hard enough to part with my only one, I can tell you, my dear, but what was I to do ?- after she took you away I married again. 'Twas the only thing to do, for 1 wasn't the sort or woman to be left alone. I had two girls by my second husband, a very different sort of man from your father. I thought, though he wa J but a rough fellow compared to him, he'd be a protector. But 'twasn't long before I found out it was the money he was after-the money Lady Cope gave me when she took you." So I had been sold for a price! was the thought that darted through my mind. But I was silent, listening. As she went on there was a loud noise in the passage outside the door. The handle turned. I started and turned round. What was to come now ? ( To be continued.)