pating Gwendolen's
feeling whenever her mother saw fit to tell her of them. For the good
rector had an innocent conviction that his niece was unaware of Mrs.
Glasher's existence, arguing with masculine soundness from what maidens
and wives were likely to know, do, and suffer, and having had a most
imperfect observation of the particular maiden and wife in question.
Not so Gwendolen's mother, who now thought that she saw an explanation
of much that had been enigmatic in her child's conduct and words before
and after her engagement, concluding that in some inconceivable way
Gwendolen had been informed of this left-handed marriage and the
existence of the children. She trusted to opportunities that would
arise in moments of affectionate confidence before and during their
journey to England, when she might gradually learn how far the actual
state of things was clear to Gwendolen, and prepare her for anything
that might be a disappointment. But she was spared from devices on the
subject.

"I hope you don't expect that I am going to be rich and grand, mamma,"
said Gwendolen, not long after the rector's communication; "perhaps I
shall have nothing at all."

She was dressed, and had been sitting long in quiet meditation. Mrs.
Davilow was startled, but said, after a moment's reflection--

"Oh yes, dear, you will have something. Sir Hugo knows all about the
will."

"That will not decide," said Gwendolen, abruptly.

"Surely, dear: Sir Hugo says you are to have two thousand a year and
the house at Gadsmere."

"What I have will depend on what I accept," said Gwendolen. "You and my
uncle must not attempt to cross me and persuade me about this. I will
do everything I can do to make you happy, but in anything about my
husband I must not be interfered with. Is eight hundred a year enough
for you, mamma?"

"More than enough, dear. You must not think of giving me so much." Mrs.
Davilow paused a little, and then said, "Do you know who is to have the
estates and the rest of the money?"

"Yes," said Gwendolen, waving her hand in dismissal of the subject. "I
know everything. It is all perfectly right, and I wish never to have it
mentioned."

The mother was silent, looked away, and rose to fetch a fan-screen,
with a slight flush on her delicate cheeks. Wondering, imagining, she
did not like to meet her daughter's eyes, and sat down again under a
sad constraint. What wretchedness her child had perhaps gone through,
which yet must r