port town to go to London, and meet her fate,
and lose it, and grow old before her time in mourning it; saw her, last
of all, and so was whirled up the street, and out of sight. And in like
manner she was whirled through the thronged streets of London, when she
reached that city at night, only that Lady Throckmorton's velvet-lined
carriage was less disposed to rattle and jerk over the stones, and more
disposed to an aristocratic, easily-swung roll than the musty vehicle of
the Downport cabman.

There was a queer, excited thrill in her pulses as she leaned back,
watching the gaslights gleaming through the fog, and the people passing
to and fro beneath the gaslights. She was so near her journey's end that
she began to feel nervous. What would Lady Throckmorton look like? How
would she receive her? How would she be dressed? A hundred such simple,
girlish wonders crowded into her mind. She would almost have been glad
to go back--not quite, but almost. She had a lingering, inconsistent
recollection of the contents of her trunks, and the sapphires, which
was, nevertheless, quite natural to a girl so young, and so unused to
even the most trivial luxuries. She had never possessed a rich or
complete costume in her life; and there was a wondrous novelty in the
anticipation of wearing dresses that were not remodelled from Pamela's
or her mother's cast-off garments.

When the carriage drew up before the door of the solid stone house, in
the solid-looking, silent square, she required all her courage. There
was a glare of gaslight around the iron grating, and a glare of gaslight
from the opening door, and then, after a little confusion of entrance,
she found herself passing up a stair-case, under the guidance of a
servant, and so was ushered into a large, handsome room, and formally
announced.

An elderly lady was sitting before the fire reading, and on hearing
Theo's name, she rose, and came forward to meet her. Of course, it was
Lady Throckmorton, and, having been a beauty in her long past day, even
at sixty-five Lady Throckmorton was quite an imposing old person. Even
in her momentary embarrassment, Theo could not help noticing her bright,
almond-shaped brown eyes, and the soft, close little curls of fine
snow-white hair, that clustered about her face under her rich,
black-lace cap.

"Theodora North, is it?" she said, offering her a wrinkled yet strong
white hand. "I am glad to see you, Theodora. I was afraid you would be
too