--while her husband and his friend pored
over books or their own manuscripts at home, she ran from house to house,
from public amusement to public amusement; but much less for the pleasure
of _seeing_ than for that of being seen. Nor was it material to her
enjoyment whether she were observed, or welcomed, where she went, as she
never entertained the smallest doubt of either; but rested assured that
her presence roused curiosity and dispensed gladness all around.

One morning she went forth to pay her visits, all smiles, such as she
thought captivating: she returned, all tears, such as she thought no less
endearing.

Three ladies accompanied her home, entreating her to be patient under a
misfortune to which even kings are liable: namely, defamation.

Young Henry, struck with compassion at grief of which he knew not the
cause, begged to know "what was the matter?"

"Inhuman monsters, to treat a woman thus!" cried his aunt in a fury,
casting the corner of her eye into a looking-glass, to see how rage
became her.

"But, comfort yourself," said one of her companions: "few people will
believe you merit the charge."

"But few! if only one believe it, I shall call my reputation lost, and I
will shut myself up in some lonely hut, and for ever renounce all that is
dear to me!"

"What! all your fine clothes?" said Henry, in amazement.

"Of what importance will my best dresses be, when nobody would see them?"

"You would see them yourself, dear aunt; and I am sure nobody admires
them more."

"Now you speak of that," said she, "I do not think this gown I have on
becoming--I am sure I look--"

The dean, with the bishop (to whom he had been reading a treatise just
going to the press, which was to be published in the name of the latter,
though written by the former), now entered, to inquire why they had been
sent for in such haste.

"Oh, Dean! oh, my Lord Bishop!" she cried, resuming that grief which the
thoughts of her dress had for a time dispelled--"My reputation is
destroyed--a public print has accused me of playing deep at my own house,
and winning all the money."

"The world will never reform," said the bishop: "all our labour, my
friend, is thrown away."

"But is it possible," cried the dean, "that any one has dared to say this
of you?"

"Here it is in print," said she, holding out a newspaper.

The dean read the paragraph, and then exclaimed, "I can forgive a
falsehood _spoken_--the warmth of conversation