there was no one to whom she could turn for comfort.
She hated Mr. Slope; that was a matter of course; in that feeling she
revelled. She hated and despised the Stanhopes; but that feeling
distressed her greatly. She had, as it were, separated herself from
her old friends to throw herself into the arms of this family; and
then how had they intended to use her? She could hardly reconcile
herself to her own father, who had believed ill of her. Mary Bold
had turned Mentor. That she could have forgiven had the Mentor
turned out to be in the wrong, but Mentors in the right are not to
be pardoned. She could not but hate the archdeacon, and now she
hated him worse than ever, for she must in some sort humble herself
before him. She hated her sister, for she was part and parcel of the
archdeacon. And she would have hated Mr. Arabin if she could. He
had pretended to regard her, and yet before her face he had hung over
that Italian woman as though there had been no beauty in the world
but hers--no other woman worth a moment's attention. And Mr. Arabin
would have to learn all this about Mr. Slope! She told herself that
she hated him, and she knew that she was lying to herself as she did
so. She had no consolation but her baby, and of that she made the
most. Mary, though she could not surmise what it was that had so
violently affected her sister-in-law, saw at once that her grief was
too great to be kept under control and waited patiently till the
child should be in his cradle.

"You'll have some tea, Eleanor," she said.

"Oh, I don't care," said she, though in fact she must have been very
hungry, for she had eaten nothing at Ullathorne.

Mary quietly made the tea, and buttered the bread, laid aside the
cloak, and made things look comfortable.

"He's fast asleep," said she; "you're very tired; let me take him up
to bed."

But Eleanor would not let her sister touch him. She looked wistfully
at her baby's eyes, saw that they were lost in the deepest slumber,
and then made a sort of couch for him on the sofa. She was
determined that nothing should prevail upon her to let him out of her
sight that night.

"Come, Nelly," said Mary, "don't be cross with me. I at least have
done nothing to offend you."

"I an't cross," said Eleanor.

"Are you angry then? Surely you can't be angry with me."

"No, I an't angry--at least not with you."

"If you are not, drink the tea I have made for you. I am sure you
must want it."

Eleanor di