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 of 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