old housekeeper,
who had been in the family when Sir Hugh was born. "Or, if you wish it,
Henry shall come down and remain here. I am sure he will do so, if it
will be a comfort."

"No; he would, perhaps, be rough to Mr. Clavering. He is so very hard.
Hannah shall do it. Will you make her understand?" Mrs. Clavering
promised that she would do this, wondering, as she did so, at the
wretched, frigid immobility of the unfortunate woman before her. She
knew Lady Clavering well; knew her to be in many things weak, to be
worldly, listless, and perhaps somewhat selfish; but she knew also that
she had loved her child as mothers always love. Yet, at this moment, it
seemed that she was thinking more of her husband than of the bairn she
had lost. Mrs. Clavering had sat down by her and taken her hand, and was
still so sitting in silence when Lady Clavering spoke again. "I suppose
he will turn me out of his house now," she said.

"Who will do so? Hugh? Oh, Hermione, how can you speak in such a way?"

"He scolded me before because my poor darling was not strong. My
darling! How could I help it? And he scolded me because there was none
other but he. He will turn me out altogether now. Oh, Mrs. Clavering,
you do not know how hard he is."

Anything was better than this, and therefore Mrs. Clavering asked the
poor woman to take her into the room where the little body lay in its
little cot. If she could induce the mother to weep for the child, even
that would be better than this hard, persistent fear as to what her
husband would say and do. So they both went and stood together over the
little fellow whose short sufferings had thus been brought to an end.
"My poor dear, what can I say to comfort you?" Mrs. Clavering, as she
asked this, knew well that no comfort could be spoken in words; but-if
she could only make the sufferer weep!

"Comfort!" said the mother. "There is no comfort now, I believe, in
anything. It is long since I knew any comfort; not since Julia went."

"Have you written to Julia?"

"No; I have written to no one. I cannot write. I feel as though if it
were to bring him back again I could not write of it. My boy! my boy! my
boy!" But still there was not a tear in her eye.

"I will write to Julia," said Mrs. Clavering; "and I will read to you my
letter."

"No, do not read it me. What is the use? He has made her quarrel with
me. Julia cares nothing now for me, or for my angel. Why should she
care? When she came home