father made her a low, sweeping bow.

Who was she, that she should talk to my father of "unfortunate
circumstances," and of her devotion to him? As for things going wrong,
it was not true--my mother, from her sofa, ordered the household, and I
knew there was nothing wrong.

When my father saw the angry, pained expression on my face, an idea
seemed to occur to him. He called me to his side, and whispered to me:

"You may run away and play, darling; and mind, Laura, you must never
repeat one word of what you hear to your mother; it would not do to
trouble her when little things go wrong."

"Nothing has gone wrong," I answered. "Although she is ill, mamma sees
to everything."

I should have said much more, but that my father placed his hand over my
mouth.

"Hush! little one," he said. "I am afraid I give you too much license."

"A little wholesome discipline needed," said Miss Reinhart; "but a sweet
child, Sir Roland--a sweet child, indeed!"

I could not hear what followed, but I feel quite sure that she whispered
something which ended in these words:

"Too much with Lady Tayne."

I ran, fast as I could go, anywhere--where I could give vent to my
childish fury. I could have stamped on her beautiful face. What right
had she, a stranger, to talk about Mrs. Eastwood and mamma--to talk to
papa as though he were an injured man--what right? I tried hard to keep
all my indignation and anger, my fear and dread of what was to follow,
to myself, but I could not bear it. I believe my heart would have broken
but for Emma, my nurse. She found me behind the great cluster of laurel
trees crying bitterly; and when she took me in her arms to console me, I
told her all about it--told her every word. I know how she listened in
dismay, for her easy, bony face grew pale, and she said nothing for some
few minutes, then she cried out:

"Oh, Miss Laura, you must be good and patient; don't set yourself
against her--perhaps she means no harm."

"She means harm and she will do it," I cried; "why should she speak in
that tone to papa, and why does she look at him as though he were to be
pitied because mamma is ill? It is mamma who wants pity; she is twenty
times better lying there sick and ill than other mothers who are well
and strong and go about everywhere."

"God bless the child!" cried my nurse; "why of course she is. Now, Miss
Laura, you know I love you, and what I say to you is always because I do
love you. Do what I say. You