rds of her companion. "Till he lay
in my arms I had loved nothing. From my earliest years I had been
taught to love money, wealth, and property; but as to myself the
teachings had never come home to me. When they bade me marry the old
man because he was rich, I obeyed them,--not caring for his riches,
but knowing that it behoved me to relieve them of the burden of my
support. He was kinder to me than they had been, and I did for him
the best I could. But his money and his wealth were little to me. He
told me over and over again that when he died I should have the means
to live, and that was enough. I would not pretend to him that I cared
for the grandeur of his children who despised me. But then came my
baby, and the world was all altered for me. What could I do for the
only thing that I had ever called my own? Money and riches they had
told me were everything."

"But they had told you wrong," said Mrs. Orme, as she wiped the tears
from her eyes.

"They had told me falsely. I had heard nothing but falsehoods from my
youth upwards," she answered fiercely. "For myself I had not cared
for these things; but why should not he have money and riches and
land? His father had them to give over and above what had already
made those sons and daughters so rich and proud. Why should not this
other child also be his father's heir? Was he not as well born as
they? was he not as fair a child? What did Rebekah do, Mrs. Orme? Did
she not do worse; and did it not all go well with her? Why should my
boy be an Ishmael? Why should I be treated as the bondwoman, and see
my little one perish of thirst in this world's wilderness?"

"No Saviour had lived and died for the world in those days," said
Mrs. Orme.

"And no Saviour had lived and died for me," said the wretched woman,
almost shrieking in her despair. The lines of her face were terrible
to be seen as she thus spoke, and an agony of anguish loaded her brow
upon which Mrs. Orme was frightened to look. She fell on her knees
before the wretched woman, and taking her by both her hands strove
all she could to find some comfort for her.

"Ah, do not say so. Do not say that. Whatever may come, that
misery--that worst of miseries need not oppress you. If that indeed
were true!"

"It was true;--and how should it be otherwise?"

"But now,--now. It need not be true now. Lady Mason, for your soul's
sake say that it is so now."

"Mrs. Orme," she said, speaking with a singular quiescence of