ear, of the
things that have long cankered the heart, to lay upon others part of
the unbearable burden of life just when death is about to remove move
it. Mrs. Bellairs had always groped feebly in heavy manacles through
life, in a sort of twilight, but her approaching freedom seemed towards
the last to throw a light, faint and intermittent but still a light, on
much that had lain confused and inexplicable in her mind. Many whispered
confidences were poured into Magdalen's ears during those last weeks,
faltered disjointed revelations, which cut deep into the sensitive
stricken heart of the young girl, cutting possibly also new channels for
all her after life to flow through.

Did the mother realise the needless anguish she inflicted on the spirit
of the grave, silent girl of seventeen. Perhaps she was too near the
great change to judge any longer--not that she had ever judged--what was
wise or unwise, what was large or small. Trivial poisoned incidents and
the deep wounds of life, petty unreasonable annoyances and acute
memories were all jumbled together. She had never sorted them, and now
she had ceased to know which was which. The feeble departing spirit
wandered aimlessly among them.

"You must stand up to your father, Magdalen, when I'm gone. I never
could. I was too much in love with him at first, and later on when I
tried he had got the habit of my yielding to him, and it made a
continual wretchedness if I opposed him. He always thought I did not
love him if I did not consent to everything he wished, or if I did not
think him right whatever he did. I did try to stand up about the
children, but at last I gave up that too. I was not fit to have
children, if I sacrificed their wellbeing to his caprice and his whim,
but that was what I did. I have been a poor mother, and an unfaithful
friend, and an unjust mistress. Women like me have no business to
marry....

"You don't remember Annie, do you? She was second housemaid, the best
servant I ever had. She was engaged to William, the footman with the
curly hair. He is butler now at Barford. She cared for him dreadfully,
poor soul. But your father could not bear her because she had a squint,
and he never gave me any peace till I parted with her. I did part with
her--and I got her a good place--but--I spoilt her marriage. It did not
take much spoiling perhaps, for after she was gone he soon began to walk
with the kitchen maid, but--she had been kind to me. So good once wh