bout it. He goes to the forest
looking like a magistrate and a gentleman; he always comes back looking
like a bog-trotter and a drunkard. There must be _women_ in it!"

Here, in an impulse of weak rage, the poor lady got up and walked to her
mirror and looked at her face. Apparently satisfied that such charms
were trampled on, she dried her tears altogether, and resumed:

"Ginny, go out of the room! (to the neat mulatto lass). Vesta, my dear
daughter, I would not cast a stain upon you for the world; but flesh and
blood _will_ cry out. If your father don't do better I will separate
from him, and leave Princess Anne!"

"Why, _mother_!"

The daughter's bright eyes were large and startled now, and their
steel-blue tint grew plainer under her rich black eyebrows.

"I will do it, if I die, unless he reforms!"

"Why, mother!"

Vesta stood with her lips parted, and her beautiful teeth just lacing
the coral of the lip. She could say no more for a long moment. Rising as
she spoke, with her head thrown back, and her mould the fuller and a
pallor in her cheeks, she looked the Eve first hearing the Creator's
rebuke.

"A separation in this family?" whispered Vesta. "It would scandalize all
Maryland. It would break my heart."

"Darling daughter, my heart must be considered sometimes. I was
something before I was a Custis. I am a woman, too."

Vesta, still pale, crossed to her mother's side and kissed her.

"Don't, don't, mamma, ever harbor a thought like that again. You, who
have been so brave and patient longer than I have lived!"

"Ah, Vesta, it is the length of injury that wears us out! What if
something should happen to us? None are so unfit to bear poverty as we."

"We cannot be poor," said the daughter, soothingly. "Don't you remember,
mother, where it says: 'As thy day, so shall thy strength be'?".

"My child," Mrs. Custis replied, "your day is young. Life looks hopeful
to you. I am growing old, and where is the arm on which I should be
leaning? What are we but two women left? There is another passage on
which I often think when we sit so often alone: 'Two women shall be
grinding at the mill: the one shall be taken and the other left!' Is
that you, or is it I? Listen, my child! it is time that you should feel
the melancholy truth! Your father's habits have mastered him. He is
beyond reclamation!"

Vesta was kneeling, and she slowly raised her head and looked at her
mother, with her nostrils dilated. Mrs. Custi