wound. "She was always good, and like an angel to me. She is with the
angels. She is with God. She cannot be disturbed by anything--anything!
Oh, let us never say, or think, or imagine--" Mary cried. Her cheeks
burned, her eyes were full of tears. It seemed to her that something of
wonder and anguish and dismay was in the room round her,--as if some
one unseen had heard a bitter reproach, an accusation undeserved, which
must wound to the very heart.

Connie struggled a little in that too tight hold. "Are you frightened,
Miss Vivian? What are you frightened for? No one can hear; and if you
mind it so much, I will never say it again."

"You must never, never say it again. There is nothing I mind so much,"
Mary said.

"Oh," said Connie, with mild surprise. Then, as Mary's hold relaxed, she
put her arms round her beloved companion's neck. "I will tell them all
you don't like it. I will tell them they must not--oh!" cried Connie
again, in a quick astonished voice. She clutched Mary round the neck,
returning the violence of the grasp which had hurt her, and with the
other hand pointed to the door. "The lady! the lady! oh, come and see
where she is going!" Connie cried.

Mary felt as if the child in her vehemence lifted her from her seat. She
had no sense that her own limbs or her own will carried her, in the
impetuous rush with which Connie flew. The blood mounted to her head. She
felt a heat and throbbing as if her spine were on fire. Connie holding by
her skirts, pushing her on, went along the corridor to the other door,
now deserted, of Lady Mary's room. "There, there! don't you see her? She
is going in!" the child cried, and rushed on, clinging to Mary, dragging