gedy.

She knew that her heart was gabbling prayers for help, eagerly,
insistently, while her lips only said over and over: "Hush, Stella! Be
still, darling child!" and such tender foolish phrases.

At last the heart-broken crying was over. The girl was exhausted. Now
and again a quiver passed through her where she sat with her face
turned away from Lady O'Gara--but the terrible weeping was done.

"Come," Lady O'Gara said, at last. "We must find some water to bathe
your face, you poor child. You are coming back with me to Castle
Talbot. You are mine now. I shall not give you up again."

Stella shook her head; she stooped and kissed Lady O'Gara's hand as
though she asked pardon. The swift dipping gesture like a bird's was
too painful, recalling as it did the bright Stella of yesterday. Her
hair was roughened like the feathers of a sick bird. Lady O'Gara, her
hand passing softly over it, had felt the roughness with a pang.

"I am not yours, dear Lady O'Gara," she said. "I am no one's but my
mother's. I am not going to Castle Talbot. I shall stay here for the
present. If she does not come back I will go to look for her. All
that other life is done with."

With a gesture of her little hands she put away all that had been hers
till to-day, including Terry. His mother's heart began to ache anew
with the thought of Terry. What would he say when he knew that Stella
knew? Poor boy, he had a very gentle and faithful heart. Oh, what a
tangle it all was, what a coil of things!

"But you can't stay here, darling child," she said tenderly. "How can
you stay in this lonely little house by yourself? I will take you away
somewhere where you do not know people, if you think that would be
better. There are griefs that are more easily borne under the eyes of
strangers. Let me see! There is a convent I know where you could be
quiet for a little time, and I could trust the Reverend Mother--Mary
Benedicta is her name; she is a cousin of mine and a dear friend--to be
as loving to you as myself."

"She would be my ... father's cousin," said Stella; and a shudder ran
through her. Then she said piteously:

"I never thought of my father as wicked."

Oh, poor Terence! How was she going to explain to the child to whom he
had done this hideous wrong? Was it any use saying that Terence had
always been good-natured? She remembered oddly after many years a day
when he had turned away from the glazing eyes of a wood