Horace with the future before him, and his children to
think of, but for her it was desperate cruel. Eh, ma'am, what she went
through! She loved more than you'd have thought us poor human beings
could. And, after all, the nature was in her; she didn't put it there.
I've had a deal to do to keep down sinful thoughts since then; there's a
lot of things that's wrong in this world, ma'am."

"What did she do?" Alice whispered.

"She! She was for going away and leaving everything; she felt herself
the worst woman in the world. It was only by begging and praying of her
on my knees that I got her to stay in the house that night, for she was
so far English, and had such a fancy, that she saw everything blacker
than any Englishwoman would, even the partick'lerest. Afterward Master
Horace was that good and gentle, and she loved him so much, that he
persuaded her to say nothing more about it, and to try to live as if it
hadn't been. And so she seemed to do, outward like, to other people. But
it wasn't ever the same again. Something had broken in them both; with
him it was his trust and his pride, but in her it was her heart."

"But the children--surely they comforted her."

"Eh, miss, that was the worst. Poor lamb, poor lamb! Never after that
day, though they were more to her nor children ever were to a mother
before, would she have them with her. Just a morning and a good-night
kiss, and a quarter of an hour at most, and I must take them away.
She watched them play in the garden from her window or the little hill
there, and when they were asleep she would sit by them for hours, saying
how bonny they were and how good they were growing. And she looked after
their clothes and their food and every little toy and pleasure, but
never came in for a romp and a chat any more."

"Dear, brave heart!" murmured the girl.

"Yes, ma'am, you feel for her, I know. She was fair terrified of them
turning Maori and shaming their father. That was it. You didn't notice?
No; after you came she was too ill to bear them about, and it seemed
natural, I dare say. The Maoris are a fearful delicate set of folks. A
bad cold takes them off into consumption directly. And with her there
was the sorrow as well as the cold. It was wonderful that she lived so
long."

Alice threw her arms round Mrs. Bentley's neck.

"O nurse, it is all so dreadful and sad. Couldn't we have somehow kept
her with us and made her happy?"

The old woman held her close. "Nay, m