after all that has passed."

"I never thought," said Mary, "that there could be--any objection."

"Oh, how can you think I mean that?--how can you pretend to think so?"
cried the other, impatiently. "But after you have been treated so
heartlessly, so unkindly,--and left, poor thing! they tell me, without a
penny, without any provision--"

"I don't know you," cried Mary, breathless with quick rising passion. "I
don't know what right you can have to meddle with my affairs."

The lady stared at her for a moment without speaking, and then she said,
all at once, "That is quite true,--but it is rude as well; for though I
have no right to meddle with your affairs, I did it in kindness, because
I took an interest in you from all I have heard."

Mary was very accessible to such a reproach and argument. Her face
flushed with a sense of her own churlishness. "I beg your pardon," she
said; "I am sure you mean to be kind."

"Well," said the stranger, "that is perhaps going too far on the other
side, for you can't even see my face, to know what I mean. But I do mean
to be kind, and I am very sorry for you. And though I think you've been
treated abominably, all the same I like you better for not allowing any
one to say so. And now, do you know where I was going? I was going to the
vicarage,--where you are living, I believe,--to see if the vicar, or his
wife, or you, or all of you together, could do a thing for me."

"Oh, I am sure Mrs. Bowyer--" said Mary, with a voice much less assured