Mary Gray

n I lifted her in my arms she was as light as a feather. A poor little shabby, overworked thing, all eyes

ing-room in a tremendous state of exciteme

and had resolved to give up this house at the September quarter and retire into a dingier part of the town. Once

said Mrs. Carruthe

y. If the public did not go back on him he'd be a dead man in five or six years. He does the wor

" she asked, in a hesitating voice. She did not l

dows. "She is coming to see you, Milly. If I have failed in anything you will succeed

ou. Kit," she said, in

with chairs and sofas round the walls, a great mirror at either end, a paper on its walls which pretended to be panels wreathed in roses. The ceiling had a gay picture of gods and goddesses reclining in a flowery mead. The mantelpiece was Carrara marble, curiously inlaid with coloured wreaths. There was a f

sk, amid a bewildering softness of cushions and rugs, and wondered what Lady Anne was saying to Mamie. Mamie was

nto the lane at the back. There was a little door open in the opposite wal

all. Three children, ranging in age from two to five, were sitting on the grass plot. Two were playing with white stones. The th

sunshade over her head, a deep-fringed thing with a folding han

ry had not come back with the market basket which contained the children's dinner. At one o'clock the four elder ones would be upon her, ravening. What on earth had become of Mary? The

et. One of Lady Anne's white-capped mai

ped. "What has

arm is broken. She got it broken in saving the life of my little Maltese, who had strayed out and had got in the way of the tram. I always said that those trams should not be allowed. The tracks are so

ly and looked at the

asked. "They seem very

three months," said Mrs. Gray, forgetting in h

ere all twins," said the old lady. "Ho

they came so quickly, my lady. Only for Mary

tall if she had had a chance. Those heavy babies, doubtless. Well,

aded eyes fil

nt. When I lived at home with my Mamma we always had three. Mr

ill see what is to be done about Mary. The child has rendered me an inestimable se

epdaug

n shall come in at once. She can cook

olding the baby's frock in her limp fingers. "By the way, Mary is very anxious about her father-how he will t

Mr. Gray about the charwoman? He's that proud; it would hurt him, I'm sure. If he i

He was probably a superior man for his station, being Mary's father. As for that poor slattern, Lady Anne had lived

Lady Anne's garden, where Mary was sitting in her wicker chair under the mulberry tree

he said, with an arm

t nothing over-humble, nothing to say that they were not equals in a sense

e of humour which kept her knowledge of her own importance from becoming overweening. "I

ry's, looked with a half-conscious pleasure round the velvet sward on which the shadows of the tr

yment. "How sweet the evening smells are! How quiet everything

feels for the children. I wonder how Mamie is getting on without me. I want to go h

You'd be forgetting and doing all manner of things you oughtn't to do. If Lady Anne is kind eno

l miss me so

er mettle-the house seemed quieter when I came home. The children were in bed. I smelt someth

d the weather, and she had an unchildish sense of the incongruity of her presence as a visitor in Lady Anne's house. Walter Gray's glance roamed over his young daughter. He saw nothing of her dreary attire. He saw only the spirit

uch, child," he said, with

ng to him as though their p

to-night for thinking of you in this quiet, restful place. Get so

ir climbing fruit trees as though they were the walls of a prison. "It is awful not to be ab

d through the leaves of an overhanging creeper, was green and gold. It seemed to him that he must have known such a room in some other world, where he had not had to make watches all day with a glass screwed in his eye, but had abundant leisure for books and beautiful things. Not but that there might be worse things than the watchmaking. Over the works of the watches, the fine little wheels and springs

ady Anne graciously; "I want

h frank admiration at his face: the fine, high, delicate nose; the arched brows, like Mary's own; the over-development of the forehea

ter of yours. Pray excuse me if I speak plainly. She has been doing far too much for her age and her strength. Haven't you

tion," Walter Gray said, hi

ree twins are merely the children of his home. That poor drudge of a

ad better let me h

ady Anne? What would

han he had done a moment before

I am not proposing to adopt Mary. I shall pay her a salary, and give her opportunities for education that you cannot. She interests me, as I have said. Let me have her. When I no longer need her-I am an old woman, Mr. Gray-she

in his face with her l

't make my Mary accustomed to better things than I c

een thee and me," sh

u, Lady Anne Ham

dy was gratified, almost flattered, by the

s he took up his hat to go, she laid a d

suggested. "Do, pray. I want you to tell her what

would surely mean? He had no illusions. Over the wall, Lady Anne had said. But the wall that separated Wistaria Terrace and the Mall was in reality a high and a great wall. He would never have Mary in the old close communion again. All passes. How good the old times were that were only a few hours away, yet seemed worlds! Never again! They would never be all and all to ea