a month or two at a time, at my age.
I think the child will be a companion to me. I have no romantic
suggestions to make. 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 will be fit to earn her own
living. Everything I have goes back to my nephew Jarvis Lord Iniscrone.
But Mary will not suffer. Think! What have you to give her but a life of
drudgery under which she will break down--die, perhaps?"

She watched the emotion in his face with her little keen, bright eyes.

"It is not a fine lady's caprice?" he said. "You won't make my Mary
accustomed to better things than I could give her and then send her back
to be a drudge?"

"The Lord judge between thee and me," she answered solemnly.

"Then I trust you, Lady Anne Hamilton," he said.

The strange thing was that the proud old lady was gratified, almost
flattered, by the confidence in Walter Gray's unworldly eyes.

"Thank you, Mr. Gray," she said; then, as he took up his hat to go, she
laid a detaining hand on his shabby coat sleeve.

"Why not have dinner with Mary in the garden?" she suggested. "Do, pray.
I want you to tell her what we have agreed upon. I can send word to Mrs.
Gray."

Walter Gray was pleased enough to go back to his little girl whom he had
left in tears for the comfortless house and the burden of the young
stepbrothers and stepsisters. It was pleasure, half pain, to see the
uplifted face with which Mary regarded him when she saw him return. How
was he going to put the barrier between them that this plan to which he
had given his consent 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 each other in a solitude which
took no count of the others. Yet it was for Mary's sake. For Mary's sake
the wall was to rise between them. As he began to tell her the strange,
wonderful thing, his heart was heavy within him because a chapter of his
life was closed. He had come to the end of an epoch. Henceforth things
might be conceivably better, but--they would be differ