At the cemetery the Gowdys for the first time beheld Miss Chandos. She was tall, and wore a long, black veil, and really appeared to be in grief!
They stood at opposite sides of the open grave—the penniless adopted daughter, with her air of refinement and delicate breeding, and the rough-looking farmer folk who were now so wealthy. The same afternoon Mrs. Gowdy and her family made a formal call upon the girl they had so unexpectedly supplanted, and were shown into a luxurious sitting-room, for which, whilst they waited, Maggie remarked, "they were paying good money."
In a few minutes Miss Chandos entered, unveiled. Her personality was so striking that Mrs. Gowdy so far forgot herself as to stand up and drop a half-curtsey, but Maggie never moved, merely sat and stared impassively. What was it, she wondered, that made this girl so different to herself? Her low voice, her long white throat, the delicacy of her hands, the natural dignity of her movements! Miss Chandos had something that she could never possess, and that never could be taken from her! Maggie realised the fact, with an increasing degree of stolid hatred.
"It is very kind of you to come and see me, Mrs. Gowdy," said the girl gently.
"Oh, well, we thought we would just call for you, as we are idle folk the noo—and see what like ye wer! It will be a sore change for ye, I'm thinking," she added.
"Yes, it was very sudden."
"And she made no will—nor left you a penny piece."
"No; but she meant to do so."
"There's justice in the Lord's sight!" declared this daughter of the Covenanters with a lifted hand, "and He cut her off before she could will the whole of my children's heritage to a stranger!"
This was not a gracious speech. Her listener coloured vividly, but made no reply.