The silent moody dinner was over at length; Slight was placing the dessert on the shining mahogany. Mary rose presently and walked over to the open window. Over the park the moon was gleaming like a silver shield against the pallid sky; the deer moved like ghosts in the pearly dew. It was more sweet and peaceful than ever, and yet Mary dwelt bitterly on the mockery of it all. What an enviable mortal she appeared to be, and yet how little did she deserve that envy. The hours had crept on and the thunderbolt had not yet fallen. Perhaps the blow would be delayed till tomorrow, which was a soothing reflection, for nothing had as yet been done, though Mary had made up her mind to invoke the aid of Lady Dashwood. She had not been across to the dower house yet, for Lady Dashwood had gone out on one of her rare visits to a neighbour, and at seven o'clock had not returned. There would be plenty of time afterwards, and Mary stood by the window, drinking in the full beauty of the night. She had made up her mind to tell Lady Dashwood everything and throw herself upon the elder woman's mercy. She turned to her father, who was gently complaining to Slight of the quality of the claret he was pouring out.

"I am going to the dower house now," the girl said coldly. How could a man be so trivial at such a moment, she wondered. "I may be late, father."

Sir George murmured something in reply. He was still absorbed in the contemplation of his glass. He had evidently forgotten the importance of Mary's errand. The girl was very chill and her heart very cold and empty and lonely as she passed down the old elm avenue and through a path leading by a great belt of evergreens to the grounds of the dower house beyond. It was a Tudor mansion a little older than the Hall itself, and it boasted some wonderful gates and a rose garden famous throughout the county. The whole fa?ade of the house was covered with roses, too, and the night air was heavy with their fragrance. The back of the house looked on a green forecourt, and a long conservatory led to a set of cloisters, which made a deliciously cool spot in the hot weather. There Mary usually found her aged relative, but she was in the drawing-room tonight. She rose as the girl entered, a tall figure with a mass of white hair done up in some old fashion that was not without its charm. Lady Dashwood's face was white as her hair, and it bore the impress of some great and lasting trouble that never would fade away on this side of the grave. Her eyes had the same haunting care in them, the same suggestion of remorse. A keen observer might have been justified in regarding Lady Dashwood as a woman who was being weighed down with the burden of a terrible secret.

But her smile was sincere enough as Mary came forward; her slim hands shook as she laid them on the girl's shoulders and kissed her. Then she seemed to discern that something was wrong, for she sighed as she looked into Mary's face.

"Sit down, dearest," she said tenderly. "It is very good of you to come and see me so late. But there is something the matter, Mary. I have not known and loved you all these years without being able to read that transparent mind of yours. What is it dear? You know that I will do anything in the wide world to save you from unhappiness."

"Dearest of foster mothers, I know it," Mary whispered. She blinked away the rare tears that would rise to her eyes. "It is selfish of me to come and worry you at this time of night, but there is no help for it. We are in great distress."

"Does that mean your father as well as yourself, or rather that you are worrying about him? What has he been doing now to cause you all this anxiety? Something to do with those speculations over which I have helped him more than once in the past."

"Have you?" Mary asked with a startled blush. "He never told me. He wrote to you----"

"More than once, my dear. As heir presumptive to the estate, I suppose he thought he had a right to do so. But I am afraid that I can't help him again--at least, not just at present. But then I don't suppose it is so very serious."

"It is disgrace," Mary said in a low voice. "It means the intrusion of strangers, men sent down to take what is called possession till the debt is paid. It is a matter of ￡5,000, and it must be obtained at once--before mid-day tomorrow. Perhaps I had better tell you all about it, but it would break my heart to see this disgrace fall on Dashwood. Dearest, tell me that you will find me the money or the means to get it!"

Lady Dashwood made no reply for a moment. A still more ashen pallor crept over her white face. She placed her hand to her heart as if to still some poignant pain there, her rings shimmered and trembled in the lamplight.

"Tell me everything," she said huskily. "My punishment is coming, my sin is finding me out at last."

"Your s............