was the remembrance of the deprecating roguish
glance of the beautiful eyes, and the coaxing caresses with which she
kissed away the lecture, and made promises, only to forget them. She
was like the soulless Undine, with her reckless gaiety and sweetness,
so loving and childish that there was no being displeased with her, so
innocent and devoid of all art or guile in her wilfulness, that her
faults could hardly bear a harsher name than follies.

Again, Mrs. Ponsonby thought of the days when she herself had been left
to stay with her old uncle and aunt. In this very house while her
husband was absent abroad, when she had assisted them to receive the
poor young wife, sent home in failing health. She thought of the sad
weeks, so melancholy in the impossibility of making an impression, or
of leading poor Louisa from her frivolities, she recalled the sorrow of
hearing her build on future schemes of pleasure, the dead blank when
her prattle on them failed, the tedium of deeper subjects, and yet the
bewitching sweetness overpowering all vexation at her exceeding
silliness. Though full one-and-twenty years had passed, still the
tears thrilled warm into Mrs. Ponsonby's eyes at the thought of
Louisa's fond clinging to her, in spite of many an admonition and even
exertion of authority, for she alone dared to control the spoilt
child's self-will; and had far more power than the husband, who seemed
to act as a check and restraint, and whose presence rendered her no
longer easy and natural. One confidence had explained the whole.

'You know, Mary dear, I always was so much afraid of him! If I had had
my own way, I know who it would have been; but there were mamma and
Anna Maria always saying how fortunate I was, and that he would be
Prime Minister, and all the rest. Oh! I was far too young and foolish
for him. He should have married a sober body, such as you, Mary! Why
did he not? She wished she had never teased him by going out so much,
and letting people talk nonsense; he had been very kind, and she was
not half good enough for him. That confession, made to him, would have
been balm for ever; but she had not resolution for the effort, and the
days slid away till the worst fears were fulfilled. Nay, were they the
worst fears? Was there not an unavowed sense that it was safer that
she should die, while innocent of all but wayward folly, than be left
to perils which she was so little able to resist?

The iron expressio