Her whole frame was convulsed, and she, the cripple, whose right limbs lay numbed and motionless upon the couch, made a struggling motion as she raised herself a little with the left arm, as if, by very force of angry will, she would have lifted herself up erect before the girl who had offended her.
For a few moments her lips moved dumbly; and there was something unspeakably awful in those convulsed features, that livid countenance, and those voiceless syllables trembling upon the white dry lips.
At last speech came.
'Girl, you were created to torment me;' she exclaimed.
'Dear grandmother, what harm have I done ?' faltered Mary.
'What harm?
You are a spy.

Your very existence is a torment and a danger.

Would to God that you were married.

Yes, married to a chimney-sweep, even--and out of my way.' 'If that is your only difficulty,' said Mary, haughtily, 'I dare say Mr.
Hammond would be kind enough to marry me to-morrow, and take me out of your ladyship's way.' Lady Maulevrier's head sank back upon her pillows, those velvet and satin pillows, rich with delicate point lace and crewel-work adornment, the labour of Mary and Fraeulein, pillows which could not bring peace to the weary head, or deaden the tortures of memory.

The pale face recovered its wonted calm, the heavy lips drooped over the weary eyes, and for a few moments there was silence in the room.
Then Lady Maulevrier raised her eyelids, and looked at her granddaughter imploringly, pathetically.
'Forgive me, Mary,' she said.