ed for a moment, then she laughed.

"Oh, no!" she said, with a little superior air. "I assure you I know her
better than you."

Wharton said no more.

"Marcella!" called a distant voice from the hall.

The girl gathered up her white skirts and her flowers in haste.

"Good-night!"

"Good-night! I shall hear you come home and wonder how you have sped.
One word, if I may! Take your _role_ and play it. There is nothing
subjects dislike so much as to see royalty decline its part."

She laughed, blushed, a little proudly and uncertainly, and went without
reply. As she shut the door behind her, a sudden flatness fell upon her.
She walked through the dark Stone Parlour outside, seeing still the
firmly-knit lightly-made figure--boyish, middle-sized, yet never
insignificant--the tumbled waves of fair hair, the eyes so keenly blue,
the face with its sharp mocking lines, its powers of sudden charm. Then
self-reproach leapt, and possessed her. She quickened her pace, hurrying
into the hall, as though from something she was ashamed or afraid of.

In the hall a new sensation awaited her. Her mother, fully dressed,
stood waiting by the old billiard-table for her maid, who had gone to
fetch her a cloak.

Marcella stopped an instant in surprise and delight, then ran up to her.
"Mamma, how _lovely_ you look! I haven't seen you like that, not since I
was a child. I remember you then once, in a low dress, a white dress,
with flowers, coming into the nursery. But that black becomes you so
well, and Deacon has done your hair beautifully!"

She took her mother's hand and kissed her cheek, touched by an emotion
which had many roots. There was infinite relief in this tender natural
outlet; she seemed to recover possession of herself.

Mrs. Boyce bore the kiss quietly. Her face was a little pinched and
white. But the unusual display Deacon had been allowed to make of her
pale golden hair, still long and abundant; the unveiling of the shapely
shoulders and neck, little less beautiful than her daughter's; the
elegant lines of the velvet dress, all these things, had very nobly
transformed her. Marcella could not restrain her admiration and delight.
Mrs. Boyce winced, and, looking upward to the gallery, which ran round
the hall, called Deacon impatiently.

"Only, mamma," said Marcella, discontentedly, "I don't like that little
chain round your neck. It is not equal to the rest, not worthy of it."

"I have nothing else, my dear," said M