to Wistaria Terrace. The
servants had made up their minds that Mary was not coming back.

Lady Iniscrone had hoped, in conversation with Lord Iniscrone, that Mary
would not give them any trouble. Never was anyone less inclined to give
trouble than Mary. Not for worlds would she have gone back to the house
where the new cold rule was, to meet Lady Iniscrone's unfriendly eyes.
Only while the body of her benefactress was yet above ground she had
stolen across at quiet hours, in the absence of the enemy, to look for
the last time on the quiet face. She had carried away little Fifine.
Fifine was seventeen years old now, and shook incessantly and moaned in
a lost way in her darkness. But she knew Mary's voice. Mary was the one
that could comfort her. At Wistaria Terrace they went to the unheard-of
extravagance of having a fire in Mary's room, day after day, so that
Fifine might lie before it in a basket, and feel the warmth in her
little bones, and hear Mary's voice.

The day of the funeral came. Mary stood by the graveside quietly, with a
veil down over her face. Walter Gray was by her side. She had come in
the doctor's carriage, and she had no leisure or thought for the
insolence with which Lady Iniscrone stared at her, as though her
presence there required explanation.

She was going to work, to begin at once. Her dear, kind old friend, who
had meant to do so well by her, had at least equipped her for earning
her own bread. The Lady Principal of Queen's College had found her
work--temporary work, to be sure, but something to go on with till she
could look about her. The Lady Principal and Dr. Carruthers were against
her making any definite plans till Lady Agatha Chenevix should
return--she was in America, arranging for a display of her industries at
a forthcoming exhibition. They had an idea that Lady Agatha would expect
to be consulted in any plan that affected her friend's future.

Returning home after the funeral Mary found that all her attention would
be required for a short time for Fifine. The little dog had had a fit or
something of the kind, and had rallied wonderfully, considering her
great age. She had missed her one friend during that hour of absence.
Dr. Carruthers came in and looked at the dog, stooping to examine it
with as much tender care as though it had been human and a paying
patient. "Keep her warm," he said. "There isn't much else possible.
There is nothing the matter, only old age. She seems to kn