A great calm fell over her.  After some minutes she looked at me again.

“Was there any mention in that will of me?”

I told her none.  Once more she raised those resistless eyes to mine.

“Then I am, indeed, alone in the world—­alone and forsaken.”

“Nay, nay!” I cried, eagerly; “do not say so.  Clare will take care of you.”

“And you?” she asked, in a voice that must have melted an anchorite.

“I will help her—­or, rather, I will take care of you both.”

“What is your sister like?” she asked, eagerly.  “Is she very clever—­very beautiful?  Shall I be frightened at her?”

“She is the sweetest and most gentle of girls—­doubly gentle from her great affliction.”

“What affliction?” she asked eagerly, “you did not tell me there was anything the matter with her.”

“She has a spinal complaint,” I replied, “and is unable to move.”

“Is it quite incurable?” she asked again.

“We hope not; perhaps a change of air may do something for her; but even at the best, it will be years before she is able to go about.”

“I am so sorry,” she said; “so very sorry.  How sad for you and for her.  I can understand why you want a companion for her; she can take no active share in the management of a large establishment like this.”

“No, no share at all.  We will not decide anything until my sister comes; but it seems to me that she will be most thankful to have you here, that you will be more useful to her than I can say.  She would not be able to see guests, give orders or anything of that kind.”

There was a strange light in her eyes, a strange, suppressed glitter in her face.

“When will your sister come?” she next inquired.

“I am going to-morrow to fetch her.  There will be no need for you to make any alterations.  You spoke of going away; there will be no need of that.  I leave here to-morrow, and when my sister comes I suppose the sternest British propriety will be satisfied.”

She smiled.

“I suppose so, too.  And Sir Barnard has not even left me a mourning-ring?  Well, I have so much less to be grateful for.  The old servants were all remembered, I hope?”

“All of them.  I will say good-night, mademoiselle; I have much to attend to.  I shall hope to find you well when I return.”

What a strange fascination her beauty had!  I remember it with a shudder.  Her face haunted me all night; I could not forget it.

The following morning I returned to London.  I had yet to break the news of our fortune to Clare, and make arrangements for our journey to Crown Anstey.

People who wish to be philosophers tell you money is nothing.  Certainly, as far as the spiritual and higher, holier interests of life go, it is not; but as far as this world is concerned, it is almost everything.  I had been poor and friendless in London, and then it had seemed to me a desert; now I had money, it was another place—­bright, cheerful, every one kind and friendly.  I seemed to float in sunshine; the very air around me was elastic, full of hope; every step was a pleasure.  What made the difference?  I was poor, and now I had money.