again; for to suggest that a new family, a city family, should have
brought an apparition of their own with them, was too ridiculous an idea
to be entertained.

"Miss Vivian," said Mrs. Turner, "will you come back with me and speak to
the child?"

At this Mary faltered a little. "I have never been there--since
the--funeral," she said.

The good woman laid a kind hand upon her shoulder, caressing and
soothing. "You were very fond of her--in spite of the way she has used
you?"

"Oh, how dare you, or any one, to speak of her so! She used me as if I
had been her dearest child. She was more kind to me than a mother. There
is no one in the world like her!" Mary cried.

"And yet she left you without a penny. Oh, you must be a good girl to
feel for her like that. She left you without--What are you going to do,
my dear? I feel like a friend. I feel like a mother to you, though you
don't know me. You mustn't think it is only curiosity. You can't stay
with your friends for ever,--and what are you going to do?"

There are some cases in which it is more easy to speak to a stranger
than to one's dearest and oldest friend. Mary had felt this when she
rushed out, not knowing how to tell the vicar's wife that she must leave
her, and find some independence for herself. It was, however, strange to
rush into such a discussion with so little warning, and Mary's pride was
very sensitive. She said, "I am not going to burden my friends," with a