er. We must be most
careful and always wear the brightest faces before her, and never let
her know that anything is going wrong."

"I will do it always," I said, and then, looking up, I saw that my nurse
was sad and grave. "How will it end, Emma?" I asked.

"Only God knows, miss," she replied. "One thing, I hope, is this--that
my lady will never find it out."

Something was telling upon my dear mother every day; she grew thinner
and paler; the sweet smile, sweet always, grew fainter; her face flushed
at the least sound. Last year my father would have been devoured by
anxiety; now his visits were short and cold. If I said one word my
mother would interrupt me. "Hush! my Laura," she would say, gently;
"gentlemen are not at home in a sick-room. Dear papa is all that is
kind, but sitting long in one room is like imprisonment to him; I love
him far too much to wish him to do it."

Then I would take the opportunity of repeating some kind word that I had
heard my father say of her. But do as we would, the shadow fell deeper
and darker every day.

The sense of degradation fell upon me with intolerable weight. That our
household was a mark for slander--a subject of discussion, a blot on
the neighborhood, I understood quite well; that my father was blamed and
my mother pitied I knew also, and that Miss Reinhart was detested seemed
equally clear. She was very particular about going to church, and every
Sunday morning, whether Sir Roland went or not, she drove over to the
church and took me with her. When I went with my mother I had always
enjoyed this hour above all others. All the people we knew crowded
around us and greeted us so warmly--every one had such pleasant things
to say to us. Now, if a child came near where we stood, silent and
solitary, it was at once called back. If Miss Reinhart felt it, she gave
no indication of such feeling; only once--when three ladies, on their
way to their carriages, walked the whole round of the church-yard rather
than cross the path on which she stood--she laughed a cynical laugh that
did not harmonize with the beauty of her face.

"What foolish, narrow-minded people these country people are!" she said.

"How do you measure a mind?" I asked, and she answered, impatiently,
that children should not talk nonsense.

The worst seemed to have come now. Some of our best servants left. Three
people remained true to my mother as the needle to the pole--myself,
Emma and Patience; we were alway