led:

"Martha, won't you come and sit beside me, so that you can brush out my
hair? I want to talk to you. You need not bring the lamp, I have light
enough."

Martha hurried in and settled herself beside the narrow bed. Lady
Barbara lifted her head so that the tresses were free for Martha's
hands, and sinking back on the pillow said almost in a whisper: "I have
been thinking of your brother, and want your help. What did he mean when
he said that things could not go on as they were with me? And that he
was going to put a stop to them if he could?"

Martha caught herself just in time. She was not ready yet to divulge
her plans for her mistress's relief, and the question had taken her
unawares. "He never forgets, my lady, what he owes your people," she
answered at last. "And when he saw you, he was so sorry for you he was
all shrivelled up."

She had the mass of blonde hair in her fingers now, the comb in hand
prepared to straighten out the tangle.

For a moment Lady Barbara lay still, then turning her cheek, her eyes
fixed on Martha's, she said in firmer tones: "You are to tell me the
truth, you know; that is why I sent for you."

"I have told it, my lady."

"And you are keeping nothing back?"

"Nothing."

The thin hand crept out and grasped the nurse's wrist.

"Then you are sure your brother does not despise me, Martha?"

"MY LADY! How can you say such a thing!" exclaimed Martha, dropping the
comb.

"Well, everybody else does--everybody I know--and a great many I never
saw and who never saw me. And now about yourself--and you must tell me
frankly--do you hate me, Martha?"

"Hate you, you poor Lamb"--tears were now choking her--"you, whom I held
in my arms?--Oh, don't talk that way to me--I can't stand it, my lady!
Ever since you were a child, I--"

"Yes, Martha, that is one reason for my asking you. You did love me as
a child--but do you love me as a woman? A child is forgiven because it
knows no better; a woman DOES know. Tell me, straight from your heart; I
want to know; it will not make any difference in the way I love you. You
have been everything to me, father, mother--everything, Martha. Tell me,
do you forgive me?"

"I have nothing to forgive, my lady," she answered, her voice clearing,
her will asserting itself. "You have always been my lady and you always
will be. Maybe you'd better not talk any more--you are all tired out,
and--"

"Oh, yes, I will talk and you must Listen. Don't pick up my