Marianne emitted a small, quickly suppressed sound, like the squeak of a mouse under a cat's claws. Her eyes were fixed on the coral-colored heap, and her lower lip trembled. She had tried to harden herself to her loss, but seeing this favorite gown her fortitude had given away; and although Mrs. Jay deplored the exhibition of sensibility over anything as frivolous as a ball gown, she could not help remembering how Marianne had looked in the dress the one and only time she had worn it. Sir Albert Martin's ball, only last month… Marianne had been the undoubted belle, despite the presence of several haughty young ladies from the metropolis of York. Sir Albert's son and heir had been assiduous in his intentions. Mrs. Jay had hoped…

But the loss of Marianne's inheritance had deprived her of that means of being relieved of the poverty that was its result. Sir Albert and the other country gentry would never permit their sons to marry a penniless girl.

Mrs. Maclean paused, her squinting eyes avoiding those of the two women sitting in the window.

"There are two more boxes," she said abruptly. "I shall return for those directly."

"Very well," Marianne said.

That was all she said; but Mrs. Maclean gathered the stiff folds more closely to her bosom as she correctly appraised the girl's hungry look.

"I will lose a great deal of money," she grumbled. "I must sell these at a loss, supposing I am fortunate enough to find a purchaser. Perhaps…" She hesitated for a moment, and then, remembering that Marianne would not patronize her establishment again, and that the vicar's widow had never been a good customer, she added belligerently, "I will take the blue coat and muff as compensation."

Marianne's yelp of distress was quite audible this time. Mrs. Jay rose to her full height, swollen with righteous indignation.

"You most certainly will not. The coat and muff were purchased in London, they were not made by you. Come, Marianne; we had better go through your wardrobe to make sure nothing was stolen."

Mrs. Maclean retreated as the vicar's widow advanced on her.

"But I will suffer a loss -"

"I doubt that. And if you did, it would be trivial compared with the sums the squire has paid you over the years. I always suspected you overcharged him; and goodness knows your profits have not been spent on those starved, overworked girls you employ."

She continued to move forward, and Mrs. Maclean, recognizing a superior will, beat a hasty and undignified retreat. She was muttering to herself as she flounced out, and she took care to make her comments audible.

"Paupers… charity… taking advantage…"

Marianne slipped her hand into Mrs. Jay's.

"You were wonderful! I would never have had the courage to stand up to her. She was always friendly and respectful; who would have supposed she could be so unkind?"

"You will find that adversity brings out the true nature of false acquaintances," Mrs. Jay replied. "And you must learn to defend your rights, Marianne. That coat is far too frivolous for your new station in life, but at least it is warm, and you will need it. Now let us do as I suggested and see what that wretch has left you. I wouldn't put it past her to take things that are not rightfully hers."

Resolutely ignoring the desolation around her, and the rude voices of the workmen, she started up the stairs. In this small way at least she could be useful.

There were after all quite a number of boxes to be taken away. Not all the squire's creditors were as hardhearted as Mrs. Maclean, and the trinkets and frivolities so dear to the heart of a young girl had little monetary value. By the time Marianne's possessions had been transferred to Mrs. Jay's house and put away, the old lady was more than ready for her tea.

There could not have been a greater contrast between two places than the rotting elegance of the manor house and the neat, overcrowded parlor of the cottage. Every table was decently swathed in cloths of heavy plush, and every surface was covered with ornaments, photographs, and the memorabilia of a long, active life. The windows had been sealed against the unhealthy night air, and Mrs. Jay had ordered the fire to be lighted. She felt the cold rather more than she used to.

Marianne found the room uncomfortably stuffy, though of course she did not say so. The day had been unusually warm for the beginning of October. A beautiful day – the last day in her childhood home. She tried to feel sad, but even her memories of "poor dear papa" could not quench her rising spirits. It is hard, she told herself sagely, to think of winter when the sun is shining. Then she smiled. I do believe, she thought, that I have composed an epigram!

Guiltily conscious that she should not have smiled, she glanced at Mrs. Jay. That lady, worn out by woe and emotion, and by another cause Marianne was unaware of, had nodded off, her head resting against the worn leather of the highbacked chair. In her white lacy cap and black gown she resembled the engravings Marianne had seen of a more famous widow, the royal widow of Windsor, who had been mourning her German prince for twenty years. Except, Marianne told herself disloyally, Mrs. Jay had a much more pleasant face than did the Queen. Once she must have been a pretty girl.

A strange little chill ran through her body, despite the excessive warmth of the room, as she contemplated the inevitable tragedy of time; but she was too young to think of disagreeable matters for long, and much too young to believe that such a tragedy could happen to her. Surely, she knew that one day she would grow old; but that would not be for a long, long time. Before her hair whitened and her cheeks grew withered (oh, impossible!) there was a great exciting world to be explored and conquered.

Of course it was very sad that poor dear Papa had died so suddenly. She had enjoyed her first eighteen years of life enormously, for her father was no disciplinarian, and she would have run quite wild had it not been for the admonitions of Mrs. Jay. Marianne loved her godmother and was always amenable to the old lady's suggestions; but Mrs. Jay had been a busy woman, as the wife of the pastor of a large parish always is, and during Marianne's childhood she had not had time to interfere unduly.

Marianne's father had taught her to ride – it was the one skill he did teach her -and he had not objected to her playing with the village children, though Mrs. Jay never failed to point out that they were beneath Marianne's station in life. As a child Marianne had never understood why this should be so. Billy Turnbull and Jack Daws and the others were far cleverer than she. They had taught her many useful things – how to set a snare for a hare (though they never could persuade her to take the poor thing out of the snare), how to fish with a bit of string and a pin, how to play ball and jacks and marbles.

Then, when she was thirteen, Mr. Jay had died, and Mrs. Jay had been free to devote all her time to her goddaughter. She had spent hours coaching Marianne in the manners and skills required of a young lady. Thanks to Marianne's instinctive gentility and affectionate disposition, this task had not proved as difficult as one might have supposed it would be, after thirteen years of neglect. The squire had also neglected the girl's formal education. Her governesses had been of two types: distressed gentlewomen, who found it impossible to adapt to the squire's boisterous life-style and invariably departed in a huff after a few weeks, and women of quite another sort, who adapted only too well and had, thereafter, little time for their pupil.

Fortunately, Marianne liked to read. She had acquired this skill early and had improved it by daily practice. At thirteen she had had no other educational advantages, but the squire, intimidated by the icy courtesy of the vicar's lady, was easily persuaded to make up the deficiencies. "Anything for a quiet life" was his motto. So they came and went – drawing masters, French masters, instructors in dancing and music and German. At eighteen Marianne had the usual young lady's repertoire of half-developed talents: a smattering of French, a soupcon of German, the ability to sketch a pretty stretch of woodland (if the drawing master outlined it first). She had also embroidered half a dozen fire screens and five pairs of house slippers for dear Papa. The squire never wore the slippers, but he thanked her for them nicely, after studying their patterns of pansies and forget-me-nots with poorly concealed astonishment.