t the
thought of parting, the mother began helping her daughter; but long
after they were finished and settled for the night, she lay wakeful and
dreading the coming day.

Cassandra slept less, and lay quietly thinking, sorrowful that she must
leave her home, and not a little anxious over what might be her future
and what might be her fate in that strange land.

When at last she slept, she dreamed of the people she had met in _Vanity
Fair_, with David strangely mixed up among them, and Frale ever alert
and watchful, moving wherever she moved, silently lingering near and
never taking his eyes from her face.

In the morning, mother and daughter were up betimes, but no word was
spoken between them to betoken hesitation or fear. Cassandra walked in a
sort of dumb wonder at herself, and smouldering deep beneath the surface
was a fierce resentment against those who, having known her from
childhood, and receiving many favors and kindnesses from her, should now
presume to so speak against her husband as to make Frale dare to
approach her as he had. Oh, the burning shame of those kisses! The shame
of the thought against David that pervaded her beloved mountains! For
the sake of his good name, she would put away her pride and go to him.

CHAPTER XXIX

IN WHICH CASSANDRA VISITS DAVID THRYNG'S ANCESTORS

It was a pleasant morning in London, with as clear a sky as is ever
permitted to that great city. Cassandra had placed her little son in the
middle of a huge bed which nearly filled the small room she had been
given in a hotel, recommended to her by Betty Towers as one where "nice
ladies travelling alone" could stop.

The child was dressed in a fresh white coat, and Cassandra had much ado
to keep him clean. She heaped him about with pillows and bedclothing to
make a nest for him, and gave him a spoon and a drinking cup for
entertainment, while she arranged her own toilet before a cloudy mirror
by a slant ray of daylight that managed to sift through the heavy
draperies and lace curtains that obscured the one high, narrow window of
her room.

She had tried to put them one side that she might look out when she
awoke, but she could see only chimney-pots and grimy, irregularly tiled
roofs. A narrow opening at the top of the window let in a little air;
still she felt smothered, and tried to raise the lower sash, but could
not move it. She thought of the books she had read about great cities,
and how some people had to l