do. The landlord has given me a delightful
apartment, thank you. He is an extortionate wretch; but I have no doubt
I shall be very comfortable. The Dodsburys stopped here, I see by the
travellers' book-quite right, instead of sleeping at that odious buggy
Strasbourg. We have had a sad, sad time, my dears, at Baden. Between
anxiety about poor Sir Brian, and about you, you naughty boy, I am sure
I wonder how I have got through it all. Doctor Finck would not let me
come away to-day; would I would come."

"I am sure it was uncommonly kind, ma'am," says poor Kew, with a rueful
face.

"That horrible woman against whom I always warned but you--but young
men will not take the advice of old grandmammas--has gone away these
ten days. Monsieur le Duc fetched her; and if he locked her up at
Moncontour, and kept her on bread-and-water; for the rest of her life,
I am sure he would serve her right. When a woman once forgets religious
principles, Kew, she is sure to go wrong. The Conversation-room is shut
up. The Dorkings go on Tuesday. Clara is really a dear little artless
creature; one that you will like, Maria--and as for Ethel, I really
think she is an angel. To see her nursing her poor father is the most
beautiful sight; night after night she has sate up with him. I know
where she would like to be, the dear child. And if Frank falls ill
again, Maria, he won't need a mother or useless old grandmother to nurse
him. I have got some pretty messages to deliver from her; but they are
for your private ears, my lord; not even mammas and brothers may hear
them."

"Do not go, mother! Pray stay, George!" cried the sick man (and again
Lord Steyne's sister looked uncommonly like that lamented marquis). "My
cousin is a noble young creature," he went on. "She has admirable good
qualities, which I appreciate with all my heart; and her beauty, you
know how I admire it. I have thought of her a great deal as I was lying
on the bed yonder" (the family look was not so visible in Lady Kew's
face), "and--and--I wrote to her this very morning; she will have the
letter by this time, probably."

"Bien! Frank!" Lady Kew smiled (in her supernatural way) almost as much
as her portrait, by Harlowe, as you may see it at Kewbury to this very
day. She is represented seated before an easel, painting a miniature of
her son, Lord Walham.

"I wrote to her on the subject of the last conversation we had
together," Frank resumed, in rather a timid voice, "the day