y fled for comfort
and consolation. "Dearest Mrs. Pendennis," wrote Miss Ethel to my wife,
"I hear you are at Rosebury; do, do come to your affectionate E. N." The
next day, it was--"Dearest Laura--If you can, pray, pray come to Newcome
this morning. I want very much to speak to you about the poor children,
to consult you about something most important." Madame de Moncontour's
pony-carriage was constantly trotting between Rosebury and Newcome in
these days of calamity.

And my wife, as in duty bound, gave me full reports of all that happened
in that house of mourning. On the very day of the flight, Lady Anne, her
daughter, and some others of her family arrived at Newcome. The deserted
little girl, Barnes's eldest child, ran, with tears and cries of joy,
to her Aunt Ethel, whom she had always loved better than her mother; and
clung to her and embraced her; and, in her artless little words, told
her that mamma had gone away, and that Ethel should be her mamma now.
Very strongly moved by the misfortune, as by the caresses and affection
of the poor orphaned creature, Ethel took the little girl to her heart,
and promised to be a mother to her, and that she would not leave her; in
which pious resolve I scarcely need say Laura strengthened her, when, at
her young friend's urgent summons, my wife came to her.

The household at Newcome was in a state of disorganisation after the
catastrophe. Two of Lady Clara's servants; it has been stated already,
went away with her. The luckless master of the house was lying wounded
in the neighbouring town. Lady Anne Newcome, his mother, was terribly
agitated by the news, which was abruptly broken to her, of the flight of
her daughter-in-law and her son's danger. Now she thought of flying to
Newcome to nurse him; and then feared lest she should be ill received by
the invalid--indeed, ordered by Sir Barnes to go home, and not to bother
him. So at home Lady Anne remained, where the thoughts of the sufferings
she had already undergone in that house, of Sir Barnes's cruel behaviour
to her at her last visit, which he had abruptly requested her to
shorten, of the happy days which she had passed as mistress of that
house and wife of the defunct Sir Brian; the sight of that departed
angel's picture in the dining-room and wheel-chair in the gallery;
the recollection of little Barnes as a cherub of a child in that very
gallery, and pulled out of the fire by a nurse in the second year of his
age, when