sy parties gathered so recently,
during the election weeks, round the tea-tables in the hall. And then
she returned to her own room to write some letters.

She looked once more with distaste and weariness at the pile of letters
and notes awaiting her. All the business of the house, the estate, the
village--she was getting an old woman; she was weary of it. And with
sudden bitterness she remembered that she had a daughter, and that
Isabel had never been a real day's help to her in her life. Where was
she now? Campaigning in the north--speaking at a bye-election--lecturing
for the suffrage. Since the accident she had paid two flying visits to
her mother and brother. Oliver had got no help from her--nor her mother;
she was the Mrs. Jellyby of a more hypocritical day. Yet Lady Lucy in
her youth had been a very motherly mother; she could still recall in the
depths of her being the thrill of baby palms pressed "against the circle
of the breast."

She sat down to her task, when the door opened behind her. A footman
came in, saying something which she did not catch. "My letters are not
ready yet"--she threw over her shoulder, irritably, without looking at
him. The door closed. But some one was still in the room. She turned
sharply in astonishment.

"May I disturb you, Lady Lucy?" said a tremulous voice.

She saw a tall and slender woman, in black, bending toward her, with a
willowy appealing grace, and eyes that beseeched. Diana Mallory stood
before her. There was a pause. Then Lady Lucy rose slowly, laid down her
spectacles, and held out her hand.

"It is very kind of you to come and see me," she said, mechanically.
"Will you sit down?"

Diana gazed at her, with the childish short-sighted pucker of the brow
that Lady Lucy remembered well. Then she came closer, still holding Lady
Lucy's hand.

"Sir James thought I might come," she said, breathlessly. "Isn't
there--isn't there anything I might do? I wanted you to let me help
you--like a secretary--won't you? Sir James thought you looked so
tired--and this big place!--I am sure there are things I might do--and
oh! it would make me so happy!"

Now she had her two hands clasping, fondling Lady Lucy's. Her eyes shone
with tears, her mouth trembled.

"Oh, you must--you must!" she cried, suddenly; "don't let's remember
anything but that we were friends--that you were so kind to me--you and
Mr. Oliver--in the spring. I can't bear sitting there at Beechcote doing
nothing--am