“Oh yes, and better than ever,” said Mary; “for often you do not know how you loved them, or what they were to you, till they are gone away.”

Connie gave her governess a hug and said, “Why did not she leave you all her money, Miss Vivian? everybody says she was wicked and unkind to die without—­”

“My dear,” cried Mary, “do not repeat what ignorant people say, because it is not true.”

“But mamma said it, Miss Vivian.”

“She does not know, Connie,—­you must not say it.  I will tell your mamma she must not say it; for nobody can know so well as I do,—­and it is not true—­”

“But they say,” cried Connie, “that that is why she can’t rest in her grave.  You must have heard.  Poor old lady, they say she cannot rest in her grave, because—­”

Mary seized the child in her arms with a pressure that hurt Connie.  “You must not!  You must not!” she cried, in a sort of panic.  Was she afraid that some one might hear?  She gave Connie a hurried kiss, and turned her face away, looking out into the vacant room.  “It is not true! it is not true!” she cried, with a great excitement and horror, as if to stay a 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 her on, her light hair streaming, her little white dress waving.