Some letters, tied together with a ribbon, attracted Mercy'sattention first. The ink in which the addresses were written hadfaded with age. The letters, directed alternatelyto Colonel Roseberry and to the Honorable Mrs. Roseberry,contained a correspondence between the husband and wife at a timewhen the Colonel's military duties had obliged him to be absentfrom home. Mercy tied the letters up again, and passed on to thepapers that lay next in order under her hand.

These consisted of a few leaves pinned together, and headed (in awoman's handwriting) "My Journal at Rome." A brief examinationshowed that the journal had been written by Miss Roseberry, andthat it was mainly devoted to a record of the last days of herfather's life.

After replacing the journal and the correspondence in the case,the one paper left on the table was a letter. The envelope, whichwas unclosed, bore this address: "Lady Janet Roy, MablethorpeHouse, Kensington, London." Mercy took the inclosure from theopen envelope. The first lines she read informed her that she hadfound the Colonel's letter of introduction, presenting hisdaughter to her protectress on her arrival in England

Mercy read the letter through. It was described by the writer asthe last efforts of a dying man. Colonel Roseberry wroteaffectionately of his daughter's merits, and regretfully of herneglected education--ascribing the latter to the pecuniary losseswhich had forced him to emigrate to Canada in the character of apoor man. Fervent expressions of gratitude followed, addressed toLady Janet. "I owe it to you," the letter concluded, "that I amdying with my mind at ease about the future of my darling girl.To your generous protection I commit the one treasure I have leftto me on earth. Through your long lifetime you have nobly usedyour high rank and your great fortune as a means of doing good. Ibelieve it will not be counted among the least of your virtueshereafter that you comforted the last hours of an old soldier byopening your heart and your home to his friendless child."

So the letter ended. Mercy laid it down with a heavy heart. Whata chance the poor girl had lost! A woman of rank and fortunewaiting to receive her--a woman so merciful and so generous thatthe father's mind had been easy about the daughter on hisdeathbed--and there the daughter lay, beyond the reach of LadyJanet's kindness, beyond the need of Lady Janet's help!

The French captain's writing-materials were left on the table.Mercy turned the letter over so that she might write the news ofMiss Roseberry's death on the blank page at the end. She wasstill considering what expressions she should use, when the soundof complaining voices from the next room caught her ear. Thewounded men left behind were moaning for help--the desertedsoldiers were losing their fortitude at last.

She entered the kitchen. A cry of delight welcomed herappearance--the mere sight of her composed the men. From onestraw bed to another she passed with comforting words that gavethem hope, with skilled and tender hands that soothed their pain.They kissed the hem of her black dress, they called her theirguardian angel, as the beautiful creature moved among them, andbent over their hard pillows her gentle, compassionate face. "Iwill be with you when the Germans come," she said, as she leftthem to return to her unwritten letter. "Courage, my poorfellows! you are not deserted by your nurse."

"Courage, madam!" the men replied; "and God bless you!"

If the firing had been resumed at that moment--if a shell hadstruck her dead in the act of succoring the afflicted, whatChristian judgment would have hesitated to declare that there wasa place for this woman in heaven? But if the war ended and lefther still living, where was the place for her on earth? Wherewere her prospects? Where was her home?

She returned to the letter. Instead, however, of seating herselfto write, she stood by the table, absently looking down at themorsel of paper.

A strange fancy had sprung to life in her mind on re-entering theroom; she herself smiled faintly at the extravagance of it. Whatif she were to ask Lady Janet Roy to let her supply MissRoseberry's place? She had met with Miss Roseberry under criticalcircumstances, and she had done for her all that one woman coulddo to help another. There was in this circumstance some littleclaim to notice, perhaps, if Lady Janet had no other companionand reader in view. Suppose she ventured to plead her owncause--what would the noble and merciful lady do? She would writeback, and say, "Send me references to your character, and I willsee what can be done." Her character! Her references! Mercylaughed bitterly, and sat down to write in the fewest words allthat was needed from her--a plain statement of the facts.

No! Not a line could she put on the paper. That fancy of hers wasnot to be dismissed at will. Her mind was perversely busy nowwith an imaginative picture of the beauty of Mablethorpe Houseand the comfort and elegance of the life that was led there. Oncemore she thought of the chance which Miss Roseberry had lost.Unhappy creature! what a home would have been open to her if theshell had only fallen on the side of the window, instead of onthe side of the yard!

Mercy pushed the letter away from her, and walked impatiently toand fro in the room.

The perversity in her thoughts was not to be mastered in thatway. Her mind only abandoned one useless train of reflection tooccupy itself with another. She was now looking by anticipationat her own future. What were her prospects (if she lived throughit) when the war was over? The experience of the past delineatedwith pitiless fidelity the dreary scene. Go where she might, dowhat she might, it would always end in the same way. Curiosityand admiration excited by her beauty; inquiries made about her;the story of the past discovered; Society charitably sorry forher; Society generously subscribing for her; and still, throughall the years of her life, the same result in the end--the shadowof the old disgrace surrounding her as with a pestilence,isolating her among other women, branding her, even when she hadearned her pardon in the sight of God, with the mark of anindelible disgrace in the sight of man: there was the prospect!And she was only five-and-twenty last birthday; she was in theprime of her health and her strength; she might live, in thecourse of nature, fifty years more!

She stopped again at the bedside; she looked again at the face ofthe corpse.

To what end had the shell struck the woman who had some hope inher life, and spared the woman who had none? The words she hadherself spoken to Grace Roseberry came back to her as she thoughtof it. "If I only had your chance! If I only had your reputationand your prospects!" And there was the chance wasted! there werethe enviable prospects thrown away! It was almost maddening tocontemplate that result, feeling her own position as she felt it.In the bitter mockery of despair she bent over the lifelessfigure, and spoke to it as if it had ears to hear her. "Oh!" shesaid, longingly, "if you could be Mercy Merrick, and if I couldbe Grace Roseberry, _now!_"

The instant the words passed her lips she started into an erectposition. She stood by the bed with her eyes staring wildly intoempty space; with her brain in a flame; with her heart beating asif it would stifle her. "If you could be Mercy Merrick, and if Icould be Grace Roseberry, now!" In one breathless moment thethought assumed a new development in her mind. In one breathlessmoment the conviction struck her like an electric shock. _Shemight be Grace Roseberry if she dared!_ There was absolutelynothing to stop her from presenting herself to Lady Janet Royunder Grace's name and in Grace's place!

What were the risks? Where was the weak point in the scheme?

Grace had said it herself in so many words--she and Lady Janethad never seen each other. Her friends were in Canada; herrelations in England were dead. Mercy knew the place in which shehad lived--the place called Port Logan--as well as she had knownit herself. Mercy had only to read the manuscript journal to beable to answer any questions relating to the visit to Rome and toColonel Roseberry's death. She had no accompl ished lady topersonate: Grace had spoken herself--her father's letter spokealso in the plainest terms--of her neglected education.Everything, literally everything, was in the lost woman's favor.The people with whom she had been connected in the ambulance hadgone, to return no more. Her own clothes were on Miss Roseberryat that moment--marked with her own name. Miss Roseberry'sclothes, marked with _her_ name, were drying, at Mercy'sdisposal, in the next room. The way of escape from theunendurable humiliation of her present life lay open before herat last. What a prospect it was! A new identity, which she mightown anywhere! a new name, which was beyond reproach! a new pastlife, into which all the world might search, and be welcome! Hercolor rose, her eyes sparkled; she had never been so irresistiblybeautiful as she looked at the moment when the new futuredisclosed itself, radiant with new hope.

She waited a minute, until she could look at her own daringproject from another point of view. Where was the harm of it?what did her conscience say?

As to Grace, in the first place. What injury was she doing to awoman who was dead? The question answered itself. No injury tothe woman. No injury to her relations. Her relations were deadalso.

As to Lady Janet, in the second place. If she served her newmistress faithfully, if she filled her new sphere honorably, ifshe was diligent under instruction and grateful for kindness--if,in one word, she was all that she might be and would be in theheavenly peace and security of that new life--what injury was shedoing to Lady Janet? Once more the question answered itself. Shemight, and would, give Lady Janet cause to bless the day when shefirst entered the house.

She snatched up Colonel Roseberry's letter, and put it into thecase with the other papers. The opportunity was before her; thechances were all in her favor; her conscience said nothingagainst trying the daring scheme. She decided then andthere--"I'll do it!"

Something jarred on her finer sense, something offended herbetter nature, as she put the case into the pocket of her dress.She had decided, and yet she was not at ease; she was not quitesure of having fairly questioned her conscience yet. What if shelaid the letter-case on the table again, and waited until herexcitement had all cooled down, and then put the contemplatedproject soberly on its trial before her own sense of right andwrong?

She thought once--and hesitated. Before she could think twice,the distant tramp of marching footsteps and the distant clatterof horses' hoofs were wafted to her on the night air. The Germanswere entering the village! In a few minutes more they wouldappear in the cottage; they would summon her to give an accountof herself. There was no time for waiting until she was composedagain. Which should it be--the new life, as Grace Roseberry? orthe old life, as Mercy Merrick?

She looked for the last time at the bed. Grace's course was run;Grace's future was at her disposal. Her resolute nature, forcedto a choice on the instant, held by the daring alternative. Shepersisted in the determination to take Grace's place.

The tramping footsteps of the Germans came nearer and nearer. Thevoices of the officers were audible, giving the words of command.

She seated herself at the table, waiting steadily for what was tocome.

The ineradicable instinct of the sex directed her eyes to herdress, before the Germans appeared. Looking it over to see thatit was in perfect order, her eyes fell upon the red cross on herleft shoulder. In a moment it struck her that her nurse's costumemight involve her in a needless risk. It associated her with apublic position; it might lead to inquiries at a later time, andthose inquiries might betray her.

She looked round. The gray cloak which she had lent to Graceattracted her attention. She took it up, and covered herself withit from head to foot.

The cloak was just arranged round her when she heard the outerdoor thrust open, and voices speaking in a strange tongue, andarms grounded in the room behind her. Should she wait to bediscovered? or should she show herself of her own accord? It wasless trying to such a nature as hers to show herself than towait. She advanced to enter the kitchen. The canvas curtain, asshe stretched out her hand to it, was suddenly drawn back fromthe other side, and three men confronted her in the open doorway.