e battle must be fought out alone. The gentle woman could have no
earthly helper in the struggle. The Canon and Mark, the only persons
who could have given her the slightest aid, were both at a distance,
even if her loyal heart could have brooked confession to them, and she
only hoped that Nuttie would never know of it. Only aid from above
could be with her in the daily, hourly effort of cheerfulness,
patience, and all the resources of feminine affection, to avert the
temptation; and she well knew that the presence of the ardent,
unsubdued, opinionative girl would, alas! only double the difficulties.
So she acquiesced, at least for the present, in Nuttie's grand
achievement of having broken away from all the wealth and luxury of
Bridgefield to return to her simple home and good old aunt. Mark was a
good deal vexed, but Nuttie did not care about that, attributing this
displeasure to Egremont clanship; Mary Nugent was doubtful and anxious,
and thought it her duty to reconcile herself to her father; but Miss
Headworth, who, be it remembered, had reason to have the worst
impressions of Mr. Egremont, rejoiced in her young niece having escaped
from him for the time, and only sighed over the impossibility of
Alice's doing the same. And when Nuttie described, as she constantly
did, the various pleasures she had enjoyed during the past year, the
good old lady secretly viewed her as a noble Christian heroine for
resigning all this in favour of the quiet little home at Micklethwayte,
though reticent before her, and discussed her excellence whenever she
was alone with Mary.

Nor would Miss Nugent vex her with contradictions or hints that what
Nuttie was giving up at present might be a dull house, with her mother
engrossed by an irritable semi-invalid, and the few gaieties to be
enjoyed by the help of the Canon's family at Redcastle. She did ask
the girl whether Mrs. Egremont, being avowedly not quite well, might
not need her assistance; but Nuttie vehemently disavowed being of any
possible use to her father; he never let her read to him! oh no! he
called her music schoolgirly, a mere infliction; he never spoke to her
if he could help it, and then it was always with a sort of sneer; she
believed he could not bear the sight of her, and was ashamed of it, as
well he might be! For Mrs. Houghton's disclosures had rankled ever
since within her, and had been confirmed by her aunt.

'But that is very sad,' said Mary. 'I am so sorr