t you?"

It was her mother's voice. Mrs. Boyce had come in from the garden
through the drawing-room, and was standing at the inner door of the
hall, trying with shortsighted eyes to distinguish her daughter among
the shadows of the great bare place. A dark day was drawing to its
close, and there was little light left in the hall, except in one corner
where a rainy sunset gleam struck a grim contemporary portrait of Mary
Tudor, bringing out the obstinate mouth and the white hand holding a
jewelled glove.

Marcella turned, and by the same gleam her mother saw her flushed and
animated look.

"Any letters?" she asked.

"No; but there are some cards. Oh yes, there is a note," and she pounced
upon an envelope she had overlooked. "It is for you, mother--from the
Court."

Mrs. Boyce came up and took note and cards from her daughter's hand.
Marcella watched her with quick breath.

Her mother looked through the cards, slowly putting them down one by one
without remark.

"Oh, mother! do read the note!" Marcella could not help entreating.

Mrs. Boyce drew herself together with a quick movement as though her
daughter jarred upon her, and opened the note. Marcella dared not look
over her. There was a dignity about her mother's lightest action, about
every movement of her slender fingers and fine fair head, which had
always held the daughter in check, even while she rebelled.

Mrs. Boyce read it, and then handed it to Marcella.

"I must go and make the tea," she said, in a light, cold tone, and
turning, she went back to the drawing-room, whither afternoon tea had
just been carried.

Marcella followed, reading. The note was from Miss Raeburn, and it
contained an invitation to Mrs. Boyce and her daughter to take luncheon
at the Court on the following Friday. The note was courteously and
kindly worded. "We should be so glad," said the writer, "to show you and
Miss Boyce our beautiful woods while they are still at their best, in
the way of autumn colour."

"How will mamma take it?" thought Marcella anxiously. "There is not a
word of papa!"

When she entered the drawing-room, she caught her mother standing
absently at the tea-table. The little silver caddy was still in her hand
as though she had forgotten to put it down; and her eyes, which
evidently saw nothing, were turned to the window, the brows frowning.
The look of suffering for an instant was unmistakable; then she started
at the sound of Marcella's step, and put d