one so feeble, who was also eighty-five years of age. Lydia would be
comfortably off when Mrs. Bell died, and she often reflected with
satisfaction that this money, as she enjoyed it, need trouble her
with no qualms of conscience--it was all the result of hard work, of
patient industry. In her position she could have been dishonest, and
it would be untrue to deny that the temptation to be dishonest when
no one would be the wiser, when not a soul could possibly ever know,
had come to her more than once. But she had never yet yielded to the
temptation. "No, no," she had said to her own heart, "I will enjoy my
money by and by with clean hands. It shall be good money. I'm a hard
woman, but nothing mean nor unclean shall touch me." Lydia made these
resolves most often sitting by Mercy's grave. For week after week did
she visit this little grave, and kept it bright with flowers and
green with all the love her heart could ever know.

But all the same it was about this money which surely she had a
right to enjoy, and feel secure and happy in possessing, that Lydia
was so anxious now.

She had ground for her fears. As I said before Lydia Purcell had
once done a foolish thing. Now her folly was coming home to her. She
had been tempted to invest two hundred pounds in an unlimited
company. Twenty per cent. she was to receive for this money. This
twenty per cent. tempted her. She did the deed, thinking that for a
year or two she was safe enough.

But this very morning she had been made uneasy by a letter from Mr.
Preston, her own and Mrs. Bell's man of business.

He knew she had invested this money. She had done so against his will.