everything was settled." When all was settled, things would be different.
Mrs. Vicar did not say, "You can then do what you please," but she did
convey to Mary's mind somehow a sort of inference that she would have
something to do it with. And when Mary had protested. "It shall never be
let again with my will," the kind woman had said tremulously, "Well, my
dear!" and had changed the subject. All these things now came to Mary's
mind. They had been afraid to tell her; they had thought it would be so
much to her,--so important, such a crushing blow. To have nothing,--to be
destitute; to be written about by Mr. Furnival to the earl; to have her
case represented,--Mary felt herself stung by such unendurable
suggestions into an energy--a determination--of which her soft young life
had known nothing. No one should write about her, or ask charity for her,
she said to herself. She had gone through the woods and round the park,
which was not large, and now she could not leave these beloved precincts
without going to look at the house. Up to this time she had not had the
courage to go near the house; but to the commotion and fever of her mind
every violent sensation was congenial, and she went up the avenue now
almost gladly, with a little demonstration to herself of energy and
courage. Why not that as well as all the rest?

It was once more twilight, and the dimness favored her design. She wanted
to go there unseen, to look up at the windows with their alien lights,
and to think of the time when Lady Mary sat behind the curtains, and
there was nothing but tenderness and peace throughout the house. There
was a light in every window along the entire front, a lavishness of
firelight and lamplight which told of a household in which there were
many inhabitants. Mary's mind was so deeply absorbed, and perhaps her
eyes so dim with tears that she could scarcely see what was before her,
when the door opened suddenly and a lady came out. "I will go myself,"
she said in an agitated tone to some one behind her. "Don't get yourself