of London and sent home to her mother.  If he’d killed Sam Lawson, who ruined her, he’d have given him what he deserved; and if he kills this man Dalton, he won’t give him half what he deserves or what’s coming to him sooner or later.  Dalton isn’t fit to live.  He got Sir Carroll O’Day all tangled up so that his character and all his money was hanging by a thread, and then, when Mr. Felix gave up what he had to save Sir Carroll, Dalton coaxed you away.  You didn’t know that, did you?  But it’s true.  That man Dalton ruined Mr. Felix’s father.  Oh, I know it all—­and I have known it for a long time.  Stephen told me all about it.  No, don’t stop me, my lady!  I’m your old Martha, who’s nursed you and sat by you many a night, and I’ll never stop loving you as long as I live.  I don’t care what you do to me or what you have done to yourself.  Your leaving Mr. Felix was like a good many other things you used to do when you were crossed.  You would have your way, just as your father will have his way, no matter who is hurt.  What Lord Carnavon wants, he wants, and there is no stopping him.  Anybody else but his lordship would have hushed the matter up, instead of ruining everybody.  But that’s all past now; I don’t love you any less for it; I’m only sorrier and sorrier for you every time I think of it.  Now we’ve got to make another start.  Stephen’ll help and I’ll work my fingers to the bone for you—­and Mr. Felix’ll help most of all.”

Except for the gesture of surprise when Dalton’s part in the ruin of her husband’s father was mentioned, Lady Barbara had listened to the breathless outburst without moving her head.  Even when the words cut deepest she had made no protest.  She knew the nurse’s heart, and that every word was meant for her good.  Her utter helplessness, too, confronted her, surrounded as she was by conditions she could neither withstand nor evade.

“And if he comes, Martha,” she asked in a low, resigned voice, “what will happen then?”

“He’ll get you out of this—­take you where you needn’t work the soul out of you.”

“Pay for my support, you mean?” she asked, with a certain dignity.

“Of course; why not?”

“Never—­never!  I will never touch a penny of his money—­I would rather starve than do it!”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be much—­he’s as poor as any of us.  When Stephen saw him last, all he had was a rubber coat to keep him warm.  But little as he has you’ll get half or all of it.”

“Poor as—­any of us!  Oh, my God, Martha!” she groaned, covering her face with her hands.  “I never thought it would come to that—­I never thought he could be poor!  I never thought be would suffer in that way.  And it is my fault, Martha—­ all of it!  You must not think I do not see it!  Every word you say is true—­and every one else knows that it is true.  It was all vanity and selfishness and stubbornness, never caring whom I hurt, so that I had the things I wanted.  I put the blame on