ve the certainty in my own mind that her troubles in this world are
over."

The poor woman dropped into her chair and hid her face from me. "Oh,
sir," she said, "how do you know it? Who can have told you?"

"No one has told me, Mrs. Clements. But I have reasons for feeling
sure of it--reasons which I promise you shall know as soon as I can
safely explain them. I am certain she was not neglected in her last
moments--I am certain the heart complaint from which she suffered so
sadly was the true cause of her death. You shall feel as sure of this
as I do, soon--you shall know, before long, that she is buried in a
quiet country churchyard--in a pretty, peaceful place, which you might
have chosen for her yourself."

"Dead!" said Mrs. Clements, "dead so young, and I am left to hear it! I
made her first short frocks. I taught her to walk. The first time she
ever said Mother she said it to me--and now I am left and Anne is
taken! Did you say, sir," said the poor woman, removing the
handkerchief from her face, and looking up at me for the first time,
"did you say that she had been nicely buried? Was it the sort of
funeral she might have had if she had really been my own child?"

I assured her that it was. She seemed to take an inexplicable pride in
my answer--to find a comfort in it which no other and higher
considerations could afford. "It would have broken my heart," she said
simply, "if Anne had not been nicely buried--but how do you know it,
sir? who told you?" I once more entreated her to wait until I could
speak to her unreservedly. "You are sure to see me again," I said,
"for I have a favour to ask when you are a little more
composed--perhaps in a day or two."

"Don't keep it waiting, sir, on my account," said Mrs. Clements. "Never
mind my crying if I can be of use. If you have anything on your mind
to say to me, sir, please to say it now."

"I only wish to ask you one last question," I said. "I only want to
know Mrs. Catherick's address at Welmingham."

My request so startled Mrs. Clements, that, for the moment, even the
tidings of Anne's death seemed to be driven from her mind. Her tears
suddenly ceased to flow, and she sat looking at me in blank amazement.

"For the Lord's sake, sir!" she said, "what do you want with Mrs.
Catherick!"

"I want this, Mrs. Clements," I replied, "I want to know the secret of
those private meetings of hers with Sir Percival Glyde. There is
something more in what you have