brought it last night; and I would not speak of it, for fear of
disturbing our last merry meeting."

My lady glanced at the letter, and put it down with a smile that
was somewhat contemptuous. "I have no need to read the letter," says
she--(indeed, 'twas as well she did not; for the Chelsey missive, in the
poor Dowager's usual French jargon, permitted him a longer holiday
than he said. "Je vous donne," quoth her ladyship, "oui jour, pour vous
fatigay parfaictement de vos parens fatigans")--"I have no need to read
the letter," says she. "What was it Frank told you last night?"

"He told me little I did not know," Mr. Esmond answered. "But I have
thought of that little, and here's the result: I have no right to the
name I bear, dear lady; and it is only by your sufferance that I am
allowed to keep it. If I thought for an hour of what has perhaps crossed
your mind too--"

"Yes, I did, Harry," said she; "I thought of it; and think of it. I
would sooner call you my son than the greatest prince in Europe--yes,
than the greatest prince. For who is there so good and so brave, and who
would love her as you would? But there are reasons a mother can't tell."

"I know them," said Mr. Esmond, interrupting her with a smile. "I know
there's Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen's Crawley, and Mr. Anthony Henley
of the Grange, and my Lord Marquis of Blandford, that seems to be the
favored suitor. You shall ask me to wear my Lady Marchioness's favors
and to dance at her ladyship's wedding."

"Oh! Harry, Harry, it is none of these follies that frighten me," cried
out Lady Castlewood. "Lord Churchill is but a child, his outbreak about
Beatrix was a mere boyish folly. His parents would rather see him buried
than married to one below him in rank. And do you think that I would
stoop to sue for a husband for Francis Esmond's daughter; or submit to
have my girl smuggled into that proud family to cause a quarrel between
son and parents, and to be treated only as an inferior? I would disdain
such a meanness. Beatrix would scorn it. Ah! Henry, 'tis not with you
the fault lies, 'tis with her. I know you both, and love you: need I
be ashamed of that love now? No, never, never, and 'tis not you, dear
Harry, that is unworthy. 'Tis for my poor Beatrix I tremble--whose
headstrong will frightens me; whose jealous temper (they say I was
jealous too, but, pray God, I am cured of that sin) and whose vanity no
words or prayers of mine can cure--only suffering, on