then:  no wonder that he would not look on such as her.  And as she cast her eye round the really luxurious chamber, and (after falteringly asking Mary whether she had any brothers and sisters) guessed that she must be the heiress of all that wealth, she settled in her heart that Tom was to marry Mary; and the intimate tone in which Mary spoke of him to her, and her innumerable inquiries about him, made her more certain that it was a settled thing.  Handsome she was not, certainly; but so sweet and good; and that her own beauty (if she was aware that she possessed any) could have any weight with Tom, she would have considered as an insult to his sense; so she made up her mind slowly, but steadily, that thus it was to be; and every fresh proof of Mary’s sweetness and goodness was a fresh pang to her, for it showed the more how probable it was that Tom loved her.

Therefore she answered all Mary’s questions carefully and honestly, as to a person who had a right to ask; and at last went to her bed, and, worn out in body and mind, was asleep in a moment.  She had not remarked the sigh which escaped Mary, as she glanced at that beautiful head, and the long black tresses which streamed down for a moment over the white shoulders ere they were knotted back for the night, and then at her own poor countenance in the glass opposite.

* * * * *

It was long past midnight when Grace woke, she knew not how, and looking up, saw a light in the room, and Mary sitting still over a book, her head resting on her hands.  She lay quiet and thought she heard a sob.  She was sure she heard tears drop on the paper.  She stirred, and Mary was at her side in a moment.

“Did you want anything?”

“Only to—­to remind you, ma’am, it is not wise to sit up so late.”

“Only that?” said Mary, laughing.  “I do that every night, alone with God; and I do not think He will be the farther off for your being here!”

“One thing I had to ask,” said Grace.  “It would lesson my labour so, if you could give me any hint of where he might be.”

“We know, as we told you, as little as you.  His letters are to be sent to Constantinople.  Some from Aberalva are gone thither already.”

“And mine among them!” thought Grace.  “It is God’s will!...  Madam, if it would not seem forward on my part—­if you could tell him the truth, and what I have for him, and where I am, in case he might wish—­wish to see me—­when you were writing.”

“Of course I will, or my father will,” said Mary, who did not like to confess either to herself or to Grace, that it was very improbable that she would ever write again to Tom Thurnall.

And so the two sweet maidens, so near that moment to an explanation, which might have cleared up all, went on each in her ignorance; for so it was to be.