wages--I
will, indeed."

Magdalen took her hand and went on, as sorrowfully and as steadily as
before.

"My future life is all darkness, all uncertainty," she said. "The next
step I may take may lead me to my prosperity or may lead me to my ruin.
Can I ask you to share such a prospect as this? If your future was as
uncertain as mine is--if you, too, were a friendless woman thrown on
the world--my conscience might be easy in letting you cast your lot
with mine. I might accept your attachment, for I might feel I was not
wronging you. How can I feel this in your case? You have a future to
look to. You are an excellent servant; you can get another place--a far
better place than mine. You can refer to me; and if the character I give
is not considered sufficient, you can refer to the mistress you served
before me--"

At the instant when that reference to the girl's last employer
escaped Magdalen's lips, Louisa snatched her hand away and started up
affrightedly from her chair. There was a moment's silence. Both mistress
and maid were equally taken by surprise.

Magdalen was the first to recover herself.

"Is it getting too dark?" she asked, significantly. "Are you going to
light the candles, after all?"

Louisa drew back into the dimmest corner of the room.

"You suspect me, ma'am!" she answered out of the darkness, in a
breathless whisper. "Who has told you? How did you find out--?" She
stopped, and burst into tears. "I deserve your suspicion," she said,
struggling to compose herself. "I can't deny it to _you_. You have
treated me so kindly; you have made me so fond of you! Forgive me, Mrs.
Vanstone--I am a wretch; I have deceived you."

"Come here and sit down by me again," said Magdalen. "Come--or I will
get up myself and bring you back."

Louisa slowly returned to her place. Dim as the fire-light was, she
seemed to fear it. She held her handkerchief over her face, and shrank
from her mistress as she seated herself again in the chair.

"You are wrong in thinking that any one has betrayed you to me," said
Magdalen. "All that I know of you is, what your own looks and ways have
told me. You have had some secret trouble weighing on your mind ever
since you have been in my service. I confess I have spoken with the
wish to find out more of you and your past life than I have found out
yet--not because I am curious, but because I have my secret troubles
too. Are you an unhappy woman, like me? If you are, I will take y