be scolded.

Henrietta was now passing through what is not an extraordinary
experience in a woman's life. She had loved and been loved, and then had
been disappointed. Her mother in her distress was no more comfort than,
I was going to say, the servants, but she was much less, for Ellen, now
Mrs. Symons' maid, gave poor Henrietta some of the sympathy for which
she hungered.

Evelyn was away, her parents had consented to her being educated with
the little friend abroad, and if she had been at home, she was only
fourteen, too young to be of much use. However Henrietta poured out her
bitterness to her in a long letter, and Evelyn wrote back full of loving
sentiment and sentimentality. Henrietta wrote also to Miranda, and had a
sympathetic letter in answer, most sympathetic, considering that Miranda
had just consummated a triumphant engagement to the son of an earl.

Mrs. Symons could not help thinking that Henrietta had stupidly muddled
her affairs, and wasted the good chance which had been contrived for
her. This was the view she presented to her husband, so that though they
tried not to show it in their manner, they both felt a little
aggrieved.

It was to William that she turned, though she remembered clearly the
disappointing interview of her childhood. William, now a solicitor in
London, came home for a few days' holiday. The Sunday of his visit was
wet. When Mr. and Mrs. Symons were both asleep in the drawing-room, he
and Henrietta sat in the former school-room, and kept up friendly
small-talk about the neighbourhood. There was something so solid and
comfortable about his face that she felt she must tell him. She wanted
to lean on someone; she had not, she never had, any satisfaction, any
pride in battling for herself. Yet she knew that William's face was
deceptive; it would be much better not to speak. She determined,
therefore, that she would say very little, and speak as coolly as she
could. She began, but before she could stop herself, the whole story was
out, and much more than the story, unbridled abuse of Louie, who was
William's favourite sister. She only stopped at last, because her sobs
made it impossible to speak.

"It does seem unlucky," said William, "very unlucky. I should talk it
over with mother."

"Mother thinks it was my own fault. I know she does."

"Well--um--write to Minna; yes, you might write to Minna."

"Minna is only interested in the baby. She hardly ever writes; besides,
she neve