"It may be useful," she repeated.

"You have not come now with a message from Evelyn?" said Sylvia, a pathetic tone in her voice.

"No, miss, I have not; but do you know, miss-do you know what has happened to me?"

"How should I?" replied Sylvia.

"I am turned out, miss-turned out by her ladyship-I who had a letter from Mrs. Wynford in Tasmania asking her ladyship to keep me always as my little Evelyn's friend and nurse and guardian. Yes, Miss Sylvia, I am turned away as though I were dirt. I am turned away, miss, although it was only yesterday that her ladyship got the letter which the dying mother wrote. It is hard, is it not, Miss Leeson? It is cruel, is it not?"

"Hard and cruel!" echoed Sylvia. "It is worse. It is a horrible sin. I wonder you stand it!"

"Now, miss, for such a pretty young lady I wonder you have not more sense. Do you think I'd go if I could help it?"

"What does Evelyn say?" asked Sylvia, intensely excited.

"What does she say? Nothing. She is stunned, I take it; but she will wake up and know what it means. No chocolate, and no one to sleep in the little white bed by her side."

"Oh, how she must enjoy her chocolate!" said poor Sylvia, a sigh of longing in her voice.

"I am grand at making it," said Jasper. "I have spent my life in many out-of-the-way places. It was in Madrid I learnt to make chocolate; no one can excel me with it. I'd like well to make a cup for you."

"And I'd like to drink it," said Sylvia.

"As well as I can see you in this light," continued Jasper, "you look as if a cup of my chocolate would do you good. Chocolate made all of milk, with plenty of bread and b.u.t.ter, is a meal which no one need despise. I say, miss, shall we go back to the "Green Man," and shall you and me have a bit of supper together? You would not be too proud to take it with me although I am only my young lady's maid?"

"I wish I could," said Sylvia. There was a wild desire in her heart, a sort of pa.s.sion of hunger. "But," she continued, "I cannot; I must go home now."

"Is your home near, miss?"

"Oh yes; it is just at the other side of that wall. But please do not talk of it-father hates people knowing. He likes us to live quite solitary."

"And it is a big house. Yes, I can see that," continued Jasper, peering through the trees.

Just then a young crescent moon showed its face, a bank of clouds swept away to the left, and Jasper could distinctly see the square outline of an ugly house. She saw something else also-the very white face of the hungry Sylvia, the look which was almost starvation in her eyes. Jasper was clever; she might not be highly educated in the ordinary sense, but she had been taught to use her brains, and she had excellent brains to use. Now, as she looked at the girl, an idea flashed through her mind.

"For some extraordinary reason that child is downright hungry," she said to herself. "Now, nothing would suit my purpose better."

She came close to Sylvia and laid her hand on her arm.

"I have taken a great fancy to you, miss," she said.

"Have you?" answered Sylvia.

"Yes, miss; and I am very lonely, and I don't mean to stay far away from my dear young lady."

"Are you going to live in the village?" asked Sylvia.

"I have a room now at the 'Green Man,' Miss Leeson, but I don't mean to stay there; I don't care for the landlady. And I don't want to be, so to speak, under her ladyship's nose. Her ladyship has took a mortal hatred to me, and as the village, so to speak, belongs to the Castle, if the Castle was to inform the 'Green Man' that my absence was more to be desired than my company, why, out I'd have to go. You can understand that, can you not, miss?"

"Yes-of course."

"And it is the way with all the houses round here," continued Jasper; "they are all under the thumb of the Castle-under the thumb of her ladyship-and I cannot possibly stay near my dear young lady unless--"

"Unless?" questioned Sylvia.

"You was to give me shelter, miss, in your house."

Sylvia backed away, absolute terror creeping over her face.

"Oh! I could not," she said. "You do not know what you are asking. We never have any one at The Priory. I could not possibly do it."

"I'd pay you a pound a week," said Jasper, throwing down her trump card-"a pound a week," she continued-"twenty whole shillings put in the palm of that pretty little hand of yours, paid regularly in advance; and you might have me in a big house like that without anybody knowing. I heard you speak of the gentleman, your father; he need never know. Is there not a room at The Priory which no one goes into, and could not I sleep there? And you'd have money, miss-twenty shillings; and I'd feed you up with chocolate, miss, and bread and b.u.t.ter, and-oh! lots of other things. I have not been on a ranch in Tasmania for nothing. You could hide me at The Priory, and you could keep me acquainted with all that happened to my little Eve, and I'd pay for it, miss, and not a soul on earth would be the wiser."

"Oh, don't!" said Sylvia-"don't!" She covered her face with her hands; she shook all over. "Don't tempt me!" she said. "Go away; do go away! Of course I cannot have you. To deceive him-to shock him-why--Oh, I dare not-I dare not! It would not be safe. There are times when he is scarcely-yes, scarcely himself; and I must not try him too far. Oh, what have I said?"

"Nothing, my dear-nothing. You are a bit overcome. And now, shall I tell you why?"

"No, don't tell me anything more. Go; do go-do go!"

"I will go," said Jasper, "after I have spoken. You are trembling, and you are cold, and you are frightened-you who ought never to tremble; you who under ordinary circ.u.mstances ought to know no fear; you who are beautiful-yes, beautiful! But you tremble because that poor young body of yours needs food and warmth-poor child!-I know."

"Go!" said Sylvia. They were her only words.

"I will go," answered Jasper after a pause; "but I will come again to this same spot to-morrow night, and then you can answer me. Her ladyship cannot turn me out between now and to-morrow night, and I will come then for my answer."

She turned and left Sylvia and went straight back to the village.

Sylvia stood still for a minute after she had gone. She then turned very slowly and re-entered The Priory grounds. A moment later she was in the ugly, ill-furnished house. The hall into which she had admitted herself was perfectly dark. There were no carpets on the floor, and the wind whistled through the ill-fitting cas.e.m.e.nts. The young girl fumbled about until she found a box of matches. She struck one and lit a candle which stood in a bra.s.s candlestick on a shelf. She then drearily mounted the uncarpeted stairs. She went to her own room, and opening a box, looked quickly and furtively around her. The box contained some crusts of bread and a few dried figs. Sylvia counted the crusts with fingers that shook.

There were five. The crusts were not large, and they were dry.

"I will eat one to-night," she said to herself, "and-yes, two of the figs. I will not eat anything now. I wish Jasper had not tempted me.

Twenty shillings, and paid in advance; and father need never know! Lots of room in the house! Yes; I know the one she could have, and I could make it comfortable; and father never goes there-never. It is away beyond the kitchen. I could make it very comfortable. She should have a fire, and we could have our chocolate there. We must never, never have any cooking that smells; we must never have anything fried; we must just have plain things. Oh! I dare not think any more. Mother once said to me, 'If your father ever, ever finds out, Sylvia, that you have deceived him, all, all will be up.' I won't yield to temptation; it would be an awful act of deceit. I cannot-I will not do it! If he will only give me enough I will resist Jasper; but it is hard on a girl to be so frightfully hungry."

She sighed, pulled herself together, walked to the window, and looked up at the watery moon.

"My own mother," she whispered, "can you see me, and are you sorry for me, and are you helping me?"

Then she washed her hands, combed out her pretty, curly black hair, and ran down-stairs. When she got half-way down she burst into a cheerful song, and as she bounded into a room where a man sat crouching over a few embers on the hearth her voice rose to positive gaiety.

"Where have you been all this time?" said the querulous tones.

"Learning a new song for you, dad. Come now; supper is ready."

"Supper!" said the man. He rose, and turned and faced his daughter.

He was a very thin man, with hair which must once have been as black as Sylvia's own; his eyes, dark as the young girl's, were sunk so far back in his head that they gleamed like half-burnt-out coals; his cheeks were very hollow, and he gave a pathetic laugh as he turned and faced the girl.

"I have been making a calculation," he said, "and it is my firm impression that we are spending a great deal more than is necessary.