when she had been the admired
belle of the great ball in Wiltshire's Rooms. How was it possible she
could be the sister of the orphan child, and the daughter of an actor,
who had died sunk in the depths of misery and poverty?

But they asked no questions, and, taking poor Griselda's hand, led her
to the room where, on a couch drawn near the fire, the child lay,
asleep.

Worn out with watching and sorrow, this sufferer for the sins of another
had fallen into a profound slumber, and Griselda, as she looked on the
pale face, about which a tangle of golden curls lay in wild confusion,
stooped and kissed her sister.

The child stirred--as she did so, opened her eyes for a moment, smiled,
and said:

"My beautiful lady! I am _glad_ you are come."

Then Griselda lifted her in her arms, and pressing her close, shed the
first tears which she had shed since the night before, when she had
first heard of Leslie Travers's peril, incurred for her sake.

Norah was soon asleep again, and the kind women threw a covering over
both sisters, and left them together with the tact and sympathy which is
the outcome of a noble nature, whether it is found in a milliner or a
marchioness.

It certainly was not found in Lady Betty Longueville.

When Graves went to her with the tidings that Brian Bellis brought, she
flew into one of her "hysterical tantrums," as Graves and David called
them.

"Yes, Graves," Lady Betty screamed, "pack up the minx's things; I am
well quit of her. Let 'em all go," she said; "but take nothing of
mine--I would not give her a groat--spoiling my Bath season like
this--treating my friend, Sir Maxwell, with contempt--forcing him to
send that insolent puppy a challenge. Disgracing me--disgracing her poor
departed uncle--lowering me in the eyes of society--she, the child of a
common actor, with whom her wretched mother ran away. Oh! I never wish
to set eyes on her again!"

Graves coughed significantly.

"She was left to your ladyship for maintenance," she said.

"How dare you speak like that to me? Leave the room instantly. And,
mind, I disown the baggage--the ungrateful hussy--when she might have
been my Lady Danby--and--and--of use to me, repaying me for all my
kindness these many years--for, let me tell you, Graves, Danby Place is
a fine mansion, and she might have been mistress of it--the idiot--the
fool! I wash my hands of her--she may go where she lists--but let me
never see her face again!"

Graves lis