assumption of unconcern was leaving him quickly; his face was
changing to one of bitter sorrow.

"When I married you," she resumed, "I had reason to hope that should
children be born to us, you would love them equally with your first;
I had a right to hope it. What have I done that--"

"Stay, Anne! I can bear anything better than reproach from you."

"What have I and my children done to you, I was about to ask, that you
take this aversion to them? lavishing all your love on the others and
upon them only injustice?"

Val bent down, agitation in his face and voice.

"Hush, Anne! you don't know. The danger is that I should love your
children better, far better than Maude's. It might be so if I did not
guard against it."

"I cannot understand you," she exclaimed.

"Unfortunately, I understand myself only too well. I have a heavy burden
to bear; do not you--my best and dearest--increase it."

She looked at him keenly; laid her hands upon him, tears gathering in her
eyes. "Tell me what the burden is; tell me, Val! Let me share it."

But Val drew in again at once, alarmed at the request: and contradicted
himself in the most absurd manner.

"There's nothing to share, Anne; nothing to tell."

Certainly this change was not propitiatory. Lady Hartledon, chilled and
mortified, disdained to pursue the theme. Drawing herself up, she turned
to go down to dinner, remarking that he might at least treat the children
with more _apparent_ justice.

"I am just; at least, I wish to be just," he broke forth in impassioned
tones. "But I cannot be severe with Edward and Maude."

Another powder was procured, and, amidst much fighting and resistance,
was administered. Lady Hartledon was in the boy's room the first thing
in the morning. One grand quality in her was, that she never visited
her vexation on the children; and Edward, in spite of his unamiable
behaviour, did at heart love her, whilst he despised his grandmother; one
of his sources of amusement being to take off that estimable old lady's
peculiarities behind her back, and send the servants into convulsions.

"You look very hot, Edward," exclaimed Lady Hartledon, as she kissed him.
"How do you feel?"

"My throat's sore, mamma, and my legs could not find a cold place all
night. Feel my hand."

It was a child's answer, sufficiently expressive. An anxious look rose to
her countenance.

"Are you sure your throat is sore?"

"It's very sore. I am so thirsty."

Lady Har