n of grief on her husband's face had forbidden all
sympathy, all attempt at consolation. He had returned at once to his
business in London, there to find that poor Louisa's extravagance had
equalled her folly, and that he, whose pride it had been to redeem his
paternal property, was thrown back by heavy debts on his own account.
This had been known to Mrs. Ponsonby, but by no word from him; he had
never permitted the most distant reference to his wife, and yet, with
inconsistency betraying his passionate love, he had ordered one of the
most beautiful and costly monuments that art could execute, for her
grave at Ormersfield, and had sent brief but explicit orders that,
contrary to all family precedent, his infant should bear no name but
Louis.

On this boy Mrs. Ponsonby had founded all her hopes of a renewal of
happiness for her cousin; but when she had left England there had been
little amalgamation between the volatile animated boy, and his grave
unbending father. She could not conjure up any more comfortable
picture of them than the child uneasily perched on his papa's knee,
looking wistfully for a way of escape, and his father with an air of
having lifted him up as a duty, without knowing what to do with him or
to say to him.

At her earnest advice, the little fellow had been placed as a boarder
with his great aunt, Mrs. Frost, when his grandmother's death had
deprived him of all that was homelike at Ormersfield, He had been with
her till he was old enough for a public school, and she spoke of him as
if he were no less dear to her than her own grandchildren; but she was
one who saw no fault in those whom she loved, and Mrs. Ponsonby had
been rendered a little anxious by a certain tone of dissatisfaction in
Lord Ormersfield's curt mention of his son, and above all by his cold
manner of announcing that this was the day when he would return from
Oxford for the Easter vacation.

Could it be that the son was unworthy, or had the father's feelings
been too much chilled ever to warm again, and all home affections lost
in the strife of politics? These had ever since engaged him, whether
in or out of office, leaving little time for society or for any
domestic pursuit.

Her reflections were interrupted by a call of 'Mamma!' and her daughter
came running up the steps. Mary Ponsonby had too wide a face for
beauty, and not slightness enough for symmetry, but nothing could be
more pleasing and trustworthy than the open co