in her life, and that she must soon be told what was to become of her. It
was not so urgent as that she should ask any questions; but it began to
appear very clearly in her mind that things were not to be with her as
they had been. She had heard the complaints and astonishment of the
servants, to whom Lady Mary had left nothing, with resentment,--Jervis,
who could not marry and take her lodging-house, but must wait until she
had saved more money, and wept to think, after all her devotion, of
having to take another place; and Mrs. Prentiss, the housekeeper, who was
cynical, and expounded Lady Mary's kindness to her servants to be the
issue of a refined selfishness; and Brown, who had sworn subdued oaths,
and had taken the liberty of representing himself to Mary as "in the same
box" with herself. Mary had been angry, very angry at all this; and she
had not by word or look given any one to understand that she felt herself
"in the same box." But yet she had been vaguely anxious, curious,
desiring to know. And she had not even begun to think what she should do.
That seemed a sort of affront to her godmother's memory, at all events,
until some one had made it clear to her. But now, in a moment, with her
first consciousness of the importance of this matter in the sight of
others, a consciousness of what it was to herself, came into her mind. A
change of everything,--a new life,--a new world; and not only so, but a
severance from the old world,--a giving up of everything that had been
most near and pleasant to her.

These thoughts were driven through her mind like the snowflakes in a
storm. The year had slid on since Lady Mary's death. Winter was beginning
to yield to spring; the snow was over, and the great cold. And other
changes had taken place. The great house had been let, and the family who
had taken it had been about a week in possession. Their coming had
inflicted a wound upon Mary's heart; but everybody had urged upon her the
idea that it was much better the house should be let for a time, "till