nobody--a liar, an outcast. Oh, Margery! she did not know me. Am I
changed? I was a child then. And she!--how sunken her eyes are, and
dim!--she did not know me. 'And this is Miss Leonard!' she said; and I
hung my false face, and curtsied from the distance, and ran away. Oh, my
mother! Margery, Margery!"

The strange confused words passed like light into my brain. First the
room grew dark, and then so bewilderingly bright, that I could see
nothing. But presently Rachel's white face, with its piteous look came
glimmering towards me. I stretched out both my hands to her, but she
melted from my touch; what colour of life remained in her face faded
away from it, and she fell in a swoon at my feet.

CHAPTER XIII.

A messenger came to my door to tell me that Mrs. Hollingford was waiting
to see me. Rachel, restored to her senses, was lying upon my bed with
her face hidden on my hands.

"Rachel," I said, "I must go to her; but before I go tell me, assure me,
that what you have said is true, that you are truly the daughter of Mrs.
Hollingford."

"I am truly her daughter, Mary Hollingford," said Rachel (for I cannot
but still call her Rachel); "I am John's sister. That is the secret I
wanted to tell you one night, when you were jealous. But you would not
listen. I have more, much more, to tell you; but go now. One thing I beg
you to promise me--that you will tell her you have changed your mind
about going to London. Let the Tyrrells go, and stay you with me--oh,
stay with me! I want you so badly; and, now that I have once spoken, I
will trust you with everything--all my wickedness and weakness, all my
troubles and difficulties."

She spoke entreatingly, and her tears fell over my hands as she kissed
them.

"I will stay," I said; and the sun began to dance on the walls, it
seemed. "I will help you all I can; and, oh, how glad I shall be to let
the Tyrrells go without me!"

And then I went down-stairs.

I found my dear old lady looking very sad and worn and anxious. I threw
myself into her arms and sobbed on her neck.

"What is this, my love?" she said. "Is it a mistake, after all? And
whose is the fault? Is it yours, or is it John's?"

"Mine--mine," I cried. "And I am not going to London. But you must not
tell John this, because he might think--"

"Think what?" she said smiling.

"Oh, I don't know; but you must only tell him that I have deferred my
visit because Miss Leonard," I choked a little over the wo