with a look of deep, quiet determination on her face no one had ever
seen there before.

"You have come to keep your promise," the young man cried--"to tell me
who I am?"

"I have come to keep my promise," Mrs. Weymore answered; "but I must
speak to my lady first. I wanted to tell you that, before you sleep
to-night, you shall know."

She left the studio, and the two sat there, breathless, expectant. Sir
Rupert was dining at Jocyln Hall, Lady Thetford was alone, in high
spirits, and Mrs. Weymore was admitted at once.

"I wonder how long you must wait?" said May Everard.

"Heaven knows! Not long, I hope, or I shall go mad with impatience."

An hour passed--two--three, and still Mrs. Weymore was closeted with my
lady, and still the pair in the studio waited.

CHAPTER XII.

MRS. WEYMORE'S STORY.

Lady Thetford sat up among her pillows and looked at her hired dependent
with wide open eyes of astonishment. The pale, timid face of Mrs.
Weymore wore a look altogether new.

"Listen to your story! My dear Mrs. Weymore, what possible interest can
your story have for me?"

"More than you think, my lady. You are so much stronger to-day than
usual, and Sir Rupert's marriage is so very near, that I must speak now
or never."

"Sir Rupert," my lady said. "What has your story to do with Sir Rupert?"

"You will hear," Mrs. Weymore said, very sadly. "Heaven knows I should
have told you long ago; but it is a story few would care to tell. A
cruel and shameful story of wrong and misery; for, my lady, I have been
cruelly wronged by one who was once very near to you."

Lady Thetford turned ashen white.

"Very near to me! do you mean--"

"My lady listen, and you shall hear. All those years that I have been
with you, I have not been what I seemed. My name is not Weymore. My name
is Thetford--as yours is."

A quick terror had settled down on my lady's face. Her lips moved, but
she did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the sad, set face before her,
with a terrified, expectant stare.

"I was a widow when I came to you," Mrs. Weymore went on to say, "but,
long before, I had known that worst widowhood, desertion. I ran away
from my happy home, from the kindest father and mother that ever lived;
I ran away, and was married and deserted before I was eighteen years
old.

"He came to our village, a remote place, my lady, with a local celebrity
for its trout-streams, and for nothing else. He came, the man whom I
married,