ltham fashionables would have esteemed decent, the
fluttering bonnet, the abundance of flaunting curls--no wonder that the
stranger attracted considerable notice in quiet Norton Bury. As she
tripped mincingly along, in her silk stockings and light shoes, a
smothered jeer arose.

"People should not laugh at an old woman, however conceited she may
be," said Maud, indignantly.

"Is she old?"

"Just look."

And surely when, as she turned from side to side, I caught her full
face--what a face it was! withered, thin, sallow almost to deathliness,
with a bright rouge-spot on each cheek, a broad smile on the ghastly
mouth.

"Is she crazy, Uncle Phineas?"

"Possibly. Do not look at her." For I was sure this must be the wreck
of such a life as womanhood does sometimes sink to--a life, the mere
knowledge of which had never yet entered our Maud's pure world.

She seemed surprised, but obeyed me and went in. I stood at the
shop-door, watching the increasing crowd, and pitying, with that pity
mixed with shame that every honest man must feel towards a degraded
woman, the wretched object of their jeers. Half-frightened, she still
kept up that set smile, skipping daintily from side to side of the
pavement, darting at and peering into every carriage that passed.
Miserable creature as she looked, there was a certain grace and ease in
her movements, as if she had fallen from some far higher estate.

At that moment, the Mythe carriage, with Mr. Brithwood in it, dozing
his daily drive away, his gouty foot propped up before him--slowly
lumbered up the street. The woman made a dart at it, but was held back.

"Canaille! I always hated your Norton Bury! Call my carriage. I will
go home."

Through its coarse discordance, its insane rage, I thought I knew the
voice. Especially when, assuming a tone of command, she addressed the
old coachman:

"Draw up, Peter; you are very late. People, give way! Don't you see
my carriage?"

There was a roar of laughter, so loud that even Mr. Brithwood opened
his dull, drunken eyes and stared about him.

"Canaille!"--the scream was more of terror than anger, as she almost
flung herself under the horses' heads in her eagerness to escape from
the mob. "Let me go! My carriage is waiting. I am Lady Caroline
Brithwood!"

The 'squire heard her. For a single instant they gazed at one
another--besotted husband, dishonoured, divorced wife--gazed with
horror and fear, as two sinners who ha