t any suffering was better than the suffering of being seen.

She did not lie down, or cover herself further than she was covered
with that shawl, nor did she move from her place for more than an
hour. By degrees she became used to the cold. She was numbed, and
as it were, half dead in all her limbs, but she had ceased to shake
as she sat there, and her mind had gone back to the misery of her
position. There was so much for her behind that was worse! What
should she do when even this retirement should not be allowed to her?
Instead of longing for the time when she should be summoned to meet
Sir Peregrine, she dreaded its coming. It would bring her nearer to
that other meeting when she would have to bow her head and crouch
before her son.

She had been there above an hour and was in truth ill with the cold
when she heard,--and scarcely heard,--a light step come quickly along
the passage towards her door. Her woman's ear instantly told her who
owned that step, and her heart once more rose with hope. Was she
coming there to comfort her, to speak to the poor bruised sinner one
word of feminine sympathy? The quick light step stopped at the door,
there was a pause, and then a low, low knock was heard. Lady Mason
asked no question, but dropping from the bed hurried to the door and
turned the key. She turned the key, and as the door was opened half
hid herself behind it;--and then Mrs. Orme was in the room.

"What! you have no fire?" she said, feeling that the air struck her
with a sudden chill. "Oh, this is dreadful! My poor, poor dear!" And
then she took hold of both Lady Mason's hands. Had she possessed the
wisdom of the serpent as well as the innocence of the dove she could
not have been wiser in her first mode of addressing the sufferer. For
she knew it all. During that dreadful hour Sir Peregrine had told
her the whole story; and very dreadful that hour had been to her. He,
when he attempted to give counsel in the matter, had utterly failed.
He had not known what to suggest, nor could she say what it might
be wisest for them all to do; but on one point her mind had been at
once resolved. The woman who had once been her friend, whom she had
learned to love, should not leave the house without some sympathy
and womanly care. The guilt was very bad; yes, it was terrible;
she acknowledged that it was a thing to be thought of only with
shuddering. But the guilt of twenty years ago did not strike her
senses so vividly as the