class="narrative">Poor Mrs Kingsworth stammered and hesitated, but James went on in a half joking tone which yet had an under current of appeal in it.

“I don’t see why my father should object. I assure you it’s a chance for me! But ah, I forgot. Was he very violent, Mary, when he understood all about it?”

“I don’t know, George did not tell me. I should like to hear all about her.”

“I have written to George. Of course it’s not a good match, but she is very respectably connected. Her mother keeps a school and she was a governess. I knew nothing that I did would be well received at home, and so I said nothing about my marriage.”

“What is her name?” asked Mary.

“Ellen; her name was Ellen Bury. But you know, Mary, it’s much too late to make a fuss about it all, because I was married soon after you were, and my baby is nearly as old as yours.”

“Oh, James, how could you keep the secret for such a long time?”

“Well, there seemed no favourable opportunity, and I thought if the child had been a boy I would have spoken then. Besides I think George must have guessed about it. He had heard of Ellen before.”

“It is a little girl then?”

“Yes; Emberance, a family name, you know. She’s a very jolly little thing. One puts off things, no doubt it was wrong. I wish I had told my poor father myself. But now you see, Mary, when my wife comes here it will make all the difference to her to have a friend in the family. I don’t want anything to be said till after to-morrow, but I thought I would talk to you.”

“I am sorry you kept it secret,” she said, “that was not fair on your wife. But I will always be friendly to her. I think she ought to come here, and that everything should be explained as soon as possible.”

“Yes, but don’t say anything to George, to-night. I want to talk it all over with him myself. Here’s my uncle!” Mrs Kingsworth was a good deal impressed with the softening of James’ tone and manner. She pitied him greatly for not having been able to receive his father’s forgiveness; and never having expected a very elevated line of conduct from him, she was less shocked at the concealment than might have been supposed.

In her own mind she passed a resolution that however uncongenial James’ wife might prove to her, she would always give her her due, and act towards her with kindness and consideration.

Some thoughts she gave to the fact that Kingsworth was her home no longer; but they were hardly thoughts of regret, she had never loved it, and she felt glad that she and her husband were free now to form a home for themselves. There would be no lack of means, she knew that George would not be left unprovided for by his father, and she herself was rich. She would not say even to herself how her heart leapt at the thought of freedom from the toils, tangles, and temptations of Kingsworth.

The funeral took place early in the day, quietly, for the Kingsworths were not people given to much display. The weather was dark and dreary, a thick sea-mist blotting everything out of sight, and adding to the mournfulness of the occasion.

When they came back from church, Mrs Kingsworth ran hastily up to the nursery to find some cheering in the sight of her child. She opened the door on a scene that she little expected. Instead of decorous silence, or subdued comments, a confusion of angry voices met her ear, and the head nurse, a very grand personage, of whose experience her mistress herself stood somewhat in awe, turned round at her entrance.

“Indeed, ma’am, you will be surprised and grieved at what you see. It is disgraceful at such a time as this. Nor should I have spoken till to-morrow, if you hadn’t happened to open the door.”

“But what is it? what is the matter?” said Mrs Kingsworth, perceiving the pretty Alice sobbing and protesting, while two or three other servants were standing round.

“Your earrings, ma’am, that were missing the other day. When I came back not five minutes ago, I found Alice looking in her workbox, she dropped it when I opened the door, and out rolled the earrings on the floor. It’s not the first time I’ve suspected her.”

“I never touched the earrings,” sobbed Alice, “never. I believe she put ’em in my box herself! she’s always been against me.”

“Alice!” said her mistress, “that is not the way to speak. It is impossible to inquire into the matter now. It must wait till to-morrow.”

“I won’t stay here to be suspected, I’ll go away this moment,” said Alice.

“That’s not for you to choose,” said the nurse. “Suppose my mistress sends for the police.”

“No, no,” said Mrs Kingsworth, “not that. But I am grieved that you should attempt to deny what seems so plain a fact. I will pay you your wages and you had better go at once. It is not fitting to have a discussion now. I will come and see you.”

Perhaps Mrs Kingsworth hardly knew how stern her sad face and voice sounded. In truth, though she had forgotten her earrings in the shock of her father-in-law’s illness, she had been much perplexed at their loss, and various circumstances had seemed to point suspicion at Alice.

The scene ended by such an outburst of violent and unrestrained passion from the girl, as prejudiced every one still further against her, and Mrs Kingsworth withdrew with her sobs and declarations that she would make them all suffer for falsely accusing her, still ringing in her ears. Mrs Kingsworth went down into the library, and before she left the room she had forgotten Alice and the earrings as completely as if they had never existed: for she heard her father-in-law’s will read, and in the reading of that will the whole face of life was changed to her.

Neither brother looked at ease as they prepared to listen. James was oppressed with the weight of his secret, and perhaps with the sense of his many sins against his father. George changed colour and manifestly listened with eagerness.

The will was accompanied by a statement written in Mr Kingsworth’s own hand. After speaking of his father’s purchase of the old house, and of his own pride in coming into possession of it, and his desire to reestablish the family fortunes, there was a very stern and unsoftened repetition of all James’ misdemeanours, and of their frequent forgiveness, of the sums of money that had been paid for him, and of how they had impoverished the estate. He had long known that the object of himself and his father would be undone by his son, had long hesitated as to the disposition of his property, but now understanding, that in addition to all these causes of displeasure James had contracted secretly a marriage of a discreditable kind, he must take the consequences of his actions, and see his father’s estate left to one who in every way deserved it.

Accordingly the will, executed only a fortnight before Mr Kingsworth’s death, left his whole property to his second son, and disinherited James altogether.

There was a moment’s blank silence, then James started up.

“But my letter—my letter that I wrote to you, George? I sent you a full explanation to lay before my father. Where is it? Why did he not receive it?”

“I did not find an opportunity,” said George slowly. “While he was unfavourably disposed, it would have been useless.”

“You did not find—you did