child's grave. It was true that, as far as she could tell, Mrs.
D'Albert's love might be still alive. But little Mercy Bell's small
grave in the churchyard contained the only child that Lydia Purcell
could abide. That little grave was always green, and remained, summer
and winter, not quite without flowers. But though she clung
passionately to Mercy's memory, yet, because she had been unjust to
this little one, she disliked all other children for her sake.

It had been great pain and annoyance to Lydia to bring the orphan
D'Alberts home, and she had only done so because of their money; for
she reflected that they could live on the farm for next to nothing,
and without in the least imagining herself dishonest, she considered
that any penny she could save from their fifty pounds a year might be
lawfully her own.

Still the children were unpleasant to her, and she wished that her
sister had not died so inopportunely.

As the two children sat opposite to her in the fly, during their
short drive from the country station to the farm, Lydia regarded them
attentively.

Maurice was an absolutely fearless child. No one in all his little
life had ever said a cross word to Maurice, consequently he
considered all the people in the world his slaves, and treated them
with lofty indifference. He chattered as unreservedly to Lydia
Purcell as he did to Cecile or Toby, and for Maurice in consequence
Lydia felt no special dislike; his fearlessness made his charm. But
Cecile was different. Cecile was unfortunate enough to win at once
this disagreeable woman's antipathy. Cecile had timid and pleading