“See here, what papa sent us.”

There was an answering shout, and then an uproar of childish delight.  A sudden change swept over her.  Light appeared to break upon her.  Something like courage came into her face, not unmingled with tenderness, softening it and dispelling the gloom which had clouded it.  She rose suddenly and walked with a swift, decisive step out of the room and up the richly carpeted stairs.  To a maid on the upper floor she said hurriedly:  “Tell Fenderson to order the brougham—­at once,” and passed into her chamber.

Closing the door, she locked it.  She opened a safe built in the wall; a package of letters fell out into the room.  A spasm almost of loathing crossed her face.  She picked up the letters and began to tear them up with almost violence, throwing the fragments into the grate as though they soiled her hands.  Going back to the safe, she took out box after box of jewelry, opening them to glance in and see that the jewels were there.  Yes, they were there:  a pearl necklace; bracelets which had been the wonder of her set, and which her pretended friend and admirer had once said were worth as much as her home.  She put them all into a bag, together with several large envelopes containing papers.

Then she went to a dress-closet, and began to search through it, choosing, finally, a simple, dark street dress, by no means one of the newest.  A gorgeous robe, which had been laid out for her to wear, she picked up and flung on the floor with sudden loathing.  It was the gown she had intended to wear that night.

A tap at the door, and the maid’s mild voice announced the carriage; and a few minutes later Mrs. Wentworth descended the stairs.

“Tell Mademoiselle Clarisse that Mr. Wentworth will be here this evening to see the children.”

“Yes, madam.”  The maid’s quiet voice was too well trained to express the slightest surprise, but as soon as the outer door had closed on her mistress, and she had heard the carriage drive away, she rushed down to the lower storey to convey the astounding intelligence, and to gossip over it for half an hour before she deemed it necessary to give the message to the governess who had succeeded Lois when the latter went home.

It was just eight o’clock that evening when the carriage drove up to the door of Norman Wentworth’s bank, and a lady enveloped in a long wrap, her dark veil pulled down over her face, sprang out and ran up the steps.  The crowd had long ago dispersed, though now and then a few timid depositors still made their way into the bank, to be on the safe side.

The intervention of the banks and the loans they had made that afternoon had stayed the run and saved the bank from closing; but Norman Wentworth knew that if he was not ruined, his bank had received a shock from which it would not recover in a long time, and his fortune was crippled, he feared, almost beyond repair.  The tired clerks looked up as the lady entered the bank, and, with glances at the clock, muttered a few words to each other about her right to draw money after the closing-hour had passed.  When, however, she walked past their windows and went straight to Mr. Wentworth’s door, their interest increased.