worth have been that husband or that protector who had so placed her, and could he, in a distant country, have forgotten her for the sake of Margarita Riccardini?"
There was an agony in that thought, which went far beyond all she had ever known of sorrow, for it showed her the reverenced, the idolized being, who ruled her destiny, as unfeeling and worthless. Turning on Mary a look of unutterable anguish, she threw herself forward on the tomb before her, laid her forehead on the marble, grasping it with her hands as if seeking support from the representation of death itself.
"We had better go now," said the old lady, looking at her watch, "the carriage is waiting."
"Whoever you may be, madam," said Mary, stepping forward, and laying her hand on the arm of the younger, with a pressure that made itself felt, "you shall not go till you have so far explained your situation and connexion with Mr. Glentworth, as to clear his character or to prove his guilt; you have awakened in Isabella's breast the agonies of jealousy; I see you have, and I appeal to your humanity to relieve her tortures, for I declare, upon my honour, that I think them natural and even justifiable."
"Oh, God!" cried the lady, "why did I not foresee this? Isabella, my dear child, I have never
