Eudoxia rose and noiselessly watched her. Mary immediately
returned, carrying a boy's clothes--a suit, in point of fact, which
Pulcheria and Eudoxia had lately been making as a Sunday garb--for the
lame gardener's boy. The child smilingly tried on the little blue tunic;
then, after tossing the clothes into a chest, she sat down at the table
to write. But she seemed to have set herself some hard task; for now she
looked down at the papyrus and rubbed her forehead, and now she gazed
thoughtfully into vacancy. She had written a few sentences when she
started up, called Eudoxia by name, and went towards the sleeping-room.

Eudoxia went forward to meet her; Mary threw herself into her arms, and
before her governess could ask any questions she told her that she had
been chosen to accomplish a great and important action. She had been
intending to wake her, to make her her confidant and to ask her advice.

How sweet and genuine it all sounded, and how charmingly confused she
seemed in spite of the ardent zeal that inspired her!

Eudoxia's heart went forth to her; the words of reproof died on her
lips, and for the first time she felt as though the orphaned child were
her own; as though their joy and grief were one; as though she, who all
her life long had thought only of herself and her own advantage, and who
had regarded her care of Mary as a mere return in kind for a salary and
home, were ready and willing to sacrifice herself and her last coin for
this child. So, when the little girl now threw her arms round Eudoxia's
neck, imploring her not to betray her, but, on the contrary, to help her
in the good work which aimed at nothing less than the rescue of Paula
and Orion-the imperilled victims of Fate, her dry eyes sparkled through
tears; she kissed Mary's burning cheeks once more and called her her own
dear, dear little daughter. This gave the child courage; with tragical
dignity, which brought a smile to the governess' lips, she took
Eudoxia's bible from the desk, and said, fixing her beseeching gaze on
the Greek's face:

"Swear!--nay, you must be quite grave, for nothing can be more
solemn--swear not to tell a soul, not even Mother Joanna, what I want to
confess to you."

Eudoxia promised, but she would take no oath. "Yea, yea, and nay, nay,"
was the oath of the Christian by the law of the Lord; but Mary clung to
her, stroked her thin cheeks, and at last declared she could not say a
word unless Eudoxia yielded. In such a