heard or read of love. The
mother read the unspoken question in Lesley's eyes, and answered it in a
somewhat modified tone.

"My dear, I do not mean that I think it wrong to love. So long as the
world lasts I suppose people will love--and be miserable. It is right
enough, if it is opposed by no other law. But in my case, I was wrong
from beginning to end. I knew that my father would never give his
permission to my marriage with Mr. Brooke; and, in my youthful folly, I
thought that my best plan was to take my own way. I married Mr. Brooke
in private, and then I went away with him to London. And it was not
long, Lesley, before I rued my disobedience and my deceit. It was a
great mistake."

"But mamma, why were you so sure that grandpapa would not give his
consent?"

Lady Alice opened her gentle eyes with a look of profound astonishment.

"Darling, don't you see? Mr. Brooke was--nobody."

"But if you loved him----"

"No, Lesley, your grandfather would never have heard of such a
marriage. He had his own plans for me. My dear, I am not saying a word
against your father in saying this. I am only telling you the fact--that
he was what is often called a self-made, self-educated man, who could
not possibly be styled my equal in the eyes of society. His father
had been a small tradesman in Devonshire. The son being clever
and--and--handsome, made his way a little in the world. He became a
journalist: he wrote for magazines and newspapers and reviews: he was
what is called a literary hack. He had no certain prospects, no certain
income, when he married me. I think," said Lady Alice, with a sort of
cold scorn, which was intensified by the very softness of her tones,
"that he could not have done a more unjustifiable thing than persuade a
girl in my position to marry him."

Lesley felt a slight diminution of sympathy with her mother. Perhaps
Lady Alice was conscious of some change in her face, for she added
hastily.

"Don't misjudge me, Lesley. If there had been between us the strong and
tender love of which women too often dream, poverty might perhaps have
been forgotten. It sounds terribly worldly to draw attention to the fact
that poverty is apt to kill a love which was not very strong at the
beginning. But the fact was that neither Caspar Brooke nor I knew our
own minds. He was three-and-twenty and I was eighteen. We married in
haste, and we certainly repented very much at leisure."

"Was he not--kind?" asked Lesley,