n her
charities. When the people had employment she gave nothing but kind
words; where they were industrious, and could not get work, she helped
them liberally; where they were idle, and would not work, "my lady"
lectured with grave sweetness that was enough to convert the most
hardened sinner.

Every one sought her in distress, her loving sweetness of disposition
was so well known. Great ladies came from London sometimes, looking
world-worn and weary, longing for comfort and sympathy. She gave it so
sweetly, no wonder they had desired it.

It was the same thing on our own estate. If husband and wife quarreled,
it was to my mother they appealed--if a child seemed inclined to go
wrong, the mother at once came to her for advice.

Was it any wonder that I, her only child, loved her so passionately when
every one else found her so sweet, beautiful and good?

CHAPTER II.

Lady Conyngham, who was one of the most beautiful and fashionable women
in London, came to spend a week with my mother. I knew from different
little things that had been said she had some great trouble with her
husband, but of course I did not know in the least what it was about.

As a rule, my mother sent me away on some pretext or other when they had
their long conversations; on this particular day she forgot me. When
Lady Conyngham began to talk I was behind my mother's chair with a book
of fairy tales. The first thing that aroused my attention was a sob from
Lady Conyngham and my mother saying to her:

"It is quite useless, you know, Isabel, to struggle against the
inevitable."

"It is very well for you, Beatrice, to talk in that fashion, you who
have never had a trouble in your own life; now, have you?"

"No," replied my beautiful mother, "not a real trouble, thank Heaven,"
and she clasped her white hands in gratitude.

"Then you cannot judge. You mean well, I know, when you advise me to be
patient; but, Beatrice, suppose it were your husband, what should you
do?"

"I should do just what I am advising you to do; I should be patient,
Isabel."

"You would. If Sir Roland neglected you, slighted you, treated you with
indifference, harder to bear than hate, if he persisted in thrusting the
presence of your rivals on you, what should you do?"

"Do you mean to ask me, really and truly, what I should do in that
case?" asked my dear mother. "Oh, Isabel, I can soon tell you that; I
should die."

"Die--nonsense!" cried Lady Conyngham. "