oft kiss was warm upon her cheek,
"the dead don't come back."

And when Lesley had gone downstairs, with the white and scarlet bouquet
in her hand, Mary Kingston sat down and wept bitterly.

It was not the first time that Lesley had spoken words of consolation to
her; but on this occasion her gentleness had gone home to Mary
Kingston's heart as it had never done before. After weeping for herself
for a time, she fell to weeping for Lesley too, for it seemed inevitable
to her that Lesley should suffer before very long. She believed that
Lesley was in love with Oliver, and that for this reason only had she
refused Maurice Kenyon, which shows that Lesley had kept her own secret
very well.

"I'd do anything to keep her from harm," said Mary Kingston, with a
passionate rush of gratitude towards the girl for her kindly words and
ways. "Francis Trent brought me grief enough, God knows; and if she's
going to throw herself away on Oliver, she'll have her heart broke
sooner than mine. For I've been used to sorrow all my days; and
she--poor, pretty lamb--she don't know what it means. And Miss Brooke
all taken up with her medicine-fads, and Mr. Brooke only a _man_, after
all, in spite of his goodness; and my lady, her mother, far away and
never coming near her--if anybody was friendless and forlorn, it's Miss
Lesley. Only me between her and her ruin, maybe! But I'll prevent it,"
said the woman, rising to her feet with a strange look of exaltation in
her sunken eyes: "I'll guard her from Oliver Trent as I couldn't guard
my own sister, poor lass! I'll see that she does not come to any harm,
and if he means ill by her I'll shame him before all the world, even
though I break more hearts than one by it."

And then she roused herself from her reverie, and went downstairs, where
she knew that her presence was required in the tea-room. Scarcely had
she entered it, when she made a short pause and gave a slightly
perceptible start. For there stood Ethel Kenyon, with Oliver Trent in
attendance. She had not thought that he would come to the house; a rumor
had gone about that he had quarreled with Mr. Brooke; yet there he was,
smiling, bland, irreproachable as ever, with quite the look of one who
had the right to be present. He was holding Ethel's fan and gloves as
she drank a cup of tea, and seemed to be paying her every attention in
his power. Ethel, in the daintiest of costumes, was laughing and talking
to him as they stood together. _She