ould
scarcely account for the woeful look of all the accessories to the
picture.

"Oh, Frank, I am so glad you are come!" said Louisa through her tears.
"I felt sure you would come when you got my letter. Your father thinks
I make a fuss about nothing, and Cuthbert and Guy do nothing but laugh
at me, as if they could possibly know; but you always understand me,
Frank. I knew it was just as good as sending for a brother of my own;
indeed better," said Mrs Wentworth, wiping her eyes; "for though
Gerald is using me so badly, I would not expose him out of his own
family, or have people making remarks--oh, not for the world!"

"Expose him!" said the Curate, with unutterable astonishment. "You
don't mean to say you have any complaint to make about Gerald?" The
idea was so preposterous that Frank Wentworth laughed; but it was not
a laugh pleasant to hear.

"Oh, Frank, if you but knew all," said Louisa; "what I have had to put
up with for months--all my best feelings outraged, and so many things
to endure that were dreadful to think of. And I that was always
brought up so differently; but now," cried the poor little woman,
bursting into renewed tears, "it's come to such a pass that it can't
be concealed any longer. I think it will break my heart; people will
be sure to say I have been to blame; and how I am ever to hold up my
head in society, and what is to be my name, and whether I am to be
considered a widow--"

"A widow!" cried the Perpetual Curate, in utter consternation.

"Or worse," sobbed Gerald's poor little wife: "it feels like being
divorced--as if one had done something wrong; and I am sure I never
did anything to deserve it; but when your husband is a Romish priest,"
cried the afflicted woman, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, "I
would just ask anybody what are you? You can't be his wife, because he
is not allowed to have any wife; and you can't go back to your maiden
name, because of the children; and how can you have any place in
society? Oh, Frank, I think I shall go distracted," said poor Louisa;
"it will feel as if one had done something wicked, and been put out of
the pale. How can I be called Mrs Wentworth any more when my husband
has left me? and even if he is a priest, and can't have any wife,
still he will be alive, and I shall not have the satisfaction of being
a widow even. I am sure I don't know what I say," she concluded, with
a fresh outburst; "for to be a widow would be a poor satisfaction