and disposed to think better of her than ever before. It
must surely have been the vilest slander that she had not cared for her
husband, that she had married him only for his wealth and title; and
that young soldier--that captain of dragoons--must have been a myth. She
might have been engaged to him, of course, before Sir Noel came, that
seemed to be an undisputed fact; and she might have jilted him for a
wealthier lover, that was all a common case. But she must have loved her
husband very dearly, or she never would have been broken-hearted like
this at his loss.

Spring deepened into summer. The June roses in the flower-gardens of
Thetford were in rosy bloom, and my lady was ill again--very, very ill.
There was an eminent physician down from London, and there was a frail
little mite of babyhood lying amongst lace and flannel; and the eminent
physician shook his head, and looked portentously grave as he glanced
from the crib to the bed. Whiter than the pillows, whiter than snow,
Ada, Lady Thetford, lay, hovering in the Valley of the Shadow of Death;
that other feeble little life seemed flickering, too--it was so even a
toss-up between the great rival powers, Life and Death, that a straw
might have turned the scale either way. So slight being that baby-hold
of gasping breath, that Mr. Knight, in the absence of any higher
authority, and in the unconsciousness of the mother, took upon himself
to baptize it. So a china bowl was brought, and Mrs. Hilliard held the
bundle of flannel, and long, white robes, and the child was named--the
name which the mother had said weeks ago it was to be called, if a
boy--Rupert Noel Thetford; for it was a male heir, and the Rev. Horace's
cake was dough.

Days went by, weeks, months, and to the surprise of the eminent
physician neither mother nor child died. Summer waned, winter returned;
the anniversary of Sir Noel's death came round, and my lady was able to
walk down stairs, shivering in the warm air under all her wraps. She had
expressed no pleasure or thankfulness in her own safety, or that of her
child. She had asked eagerly if it were a boy or a girl; and hearing its
sex, had turned her face to the wall, and lay for hours and hours
speechless and motionless. Yet it was very dear to her, too, by fits and
starts. She would hold it in her arms half a day, sometimes covering it
with kisses, with jealous, passionate love, crying over it, and half
smothering it with caresses; and then, aga