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 298 subsequent movements,” she concluded. Laura did not acquiesce.

“Really, Jane, there seems very little use in bringing up this uncertainty about Clarice. As I say, it does not tell for the dignity of the Chesney family.”

“1 will not rest, now, until I have found out Clarice—if she is to be found,” replied Jane, in some agitation. “This information of Mrs. West’s has given me an impetus; and my father left her to me. She may yet be living; may be in poverty, for all we know, and unwilling to apply to us; or,” she added, dropping her voice, “or if dead herself, she may have left a child or children. I must inquire of Mr. Carlton, Laura, in spite of your prejudices and your pride.”

“Inquire if you like,” returned Laura, ungraciously. “You always seem to speak as if there were some dark mystery attaching to this business, apart from the bare loss of Clarice,” she continued, in a fretful sort of way.

“It invariably presents itself as a mystery to my own mind,” said Jane, and her tone certainly did sound dark enough as she spoke; “a mystery which I seem to shrink from. You know that little lame boy at Tupper'a cottage?”

“Well?” returned Laura, after a pause and a stare.

“I cannot divest myself of the idea that that child is Clarice’s.”

Up started Lady Laura, flinging from her knees a warm covering which had been laid on them; she stamped up and down the room in excitement, forgetting her character of invalid.

“That child Clarice’s! For shame, Jane! That child is—is—yes, I will speak out! That child is Mr. Carlton’s.”

Jane sat unable to speak, aghast at her vehemence; at her words.

“Mr. Carlton’s! Nay, Laura, I think it is you who should cry shame. What wild notion can have taken possession of you?”

Laura, ten times more vehement, more excited than before, reiterated her assertion. She was in the midst of her tirade—directed against Mr. Carlton and mankind in general—when Judith came in. Laura, uncontrollable as ever her father was when over-mastered by passion, seized the girl by the arm.

“You know that child at Tupper’s cottage, Judith? I have heard of Lady Jane’s sending you there. Who is he like?”

Judith stood in dismay. She tried to parry the question. Lady Laura shook her by the arm.

“My lady, it’s well known there’s no accounting for likenesses: two people that never were within miles of each other in their lives may be alike.”

“Of course they may be,” sarcastically retorted Lady Laura. "Will you speak, Judith?”

“And sometimes are,” added Jane, with calm composure. “A likeness alone proves nothing. But you had better speak at once, Judith.”

“My ladies, the likeness I saw could be nothing but an accidental one,” said Judith, still avoiding a direct answer. “It may exist in my fancy only.”

Laura stamped her foot. “You must speak, Judith,” said Lady Jane. “Like whom do you think the child?”

“Like Mr. Carlton,” was the low reply.

Lady Jane stood dumb. It was anything but the answer she expected, for she had believed Laura’s notion to be pure fancy. A triumphant glance shot from Laura’s eyes, and certain ill-advised words dropped from her lips. The avowal seemed so complete a confirmation of her suspicions, that she looked upon the case as proved against Mr. Carlton.

She sat down in her chair again, battling with the jealous anger that was causing her bosom to heave and throb tumultuously. Jane repudiated the idea, repudiated it utterly, whatever accidental resemblance might exist to Mr. Carlton, She turned to Judith. As so much had been spoken before the girl, it was well that more should be said.

“We had a sister who was lost, Judith—you once heard me allude to her before. She has never been heard of; but latterly I have gathered facts which induce me to conclude that she married. In that little child at Tupper’s cottage I trace a very great likeness to her, and I cannot divest myself of the idea that it must be her child. Laura, don’t you see how feasible it is? Clarice may have gone abroad with her husband, leaving her child behind at nurse.”

For once a tinge of colour came into the white face of Judith. "What name did you say, my lady? Clarice?"

“Clarice,” repeated Jane, in surprise, for the emphasis was involuntary. “Lady Clarice. Why?”

Judith turned away. “Oh, nothing, my lady; nothing. I thought the name very uncommon.”

“It is rather uncommon. We have some reason to think she married a Mr. West: a gentleman who afterwards went abroad and died. What are you looking at, Judith?”

The girl had turned round again; in open, genuine surprise this time. “I once knew a Mr. West, my lady; a gentleman who was visiting old Mrs. Jenkinson in Palace Street,