should be thus shaken, for rank and station was
their life and blood. The couple had been
married some months. The one of the family,
however, who was most furious was Edward,
William's brother. He went over to Dublin, saw
him and her, and poured out a torrent of
reproaches, and even insults."

"Oh, mamma!" cried Lucy, with a burst of
reproach; then checked herself.

"Yes, dear, your friend lost his good sense
and restraint just for that once. By-and-by
William became colonel, and a very young
colonel; and then his regiment was suddenly
ordered away to India. She was very
delicate, and the physicians said she must
not be taken there. In fact, she was more
delicate than he thought—perhaps the Dublin
Castle and the Dublin balls—no matter. He
did not know what to do at first, but took a
sudden resolution. He came to me to tell me.
I confess I was astonished when I heard it, and
was strongly against it; for I knew what was the
temper of Sir Philip. His resolution was to go
to them straight, appeal to their generosity for
his unprotected wife, and throw himself on their
goodness, which he said he knew. He did so.
How do you suppose he succeeded?"

"I know he succeeded," said Lucy, half
starting from her chair, " for Edward was there,
and he is the most generous forgiving fellow!"

"I never was so astonished," went on Mrs.
Winter," as when he wrote to me that he had
succeeded—when he said they had behaved in
a manner he dared not have expected—not with
great warmth, certainly, but still with justice
and calmness. They said, if he liked, she might
stay with them while he was away. I heard
afterwards that she shrank from the idea, and
begged that she might stay anywhere rather than
with them. What she really wished was to go
back to her own people, but she knew that they
were of a quality that her husband shrank from,
and she did not even name them."

"What was she like, mamma?" asked Lucy,
abruptly.

Mrs. Winter paused, and looked round on
them smiling.

"I never saw her myself, but you recollect
our going up to town to have your photograph
done?"

"To be sure, mamma; and thirty were taken;
and M. Le Bœuf asked to be allowed to have
more taken off for private sale."

"Well, she was like that," said her mother,
laughing—"at least, so Howard says. I sent
him one when I asked him to come, and you
never saw what an eager agitated letter he
wrote, asking where I got it, what had I been
doing? That is the real thing that I believe
brings him here. We might as well have
thought of drawing a Trappist from his cell."

"How strange!" said the ladies. And Lucy,
with that most natural instinct which guided
every motion, stood up and tossed her head
before the glass to see what the "likeness" must
look like.

"I am not going to make this a long story,"
said Mrs. Winter, "so I will be short. He went
to India, was to arrange his exchange there, and
be home in a year. She went to his relations,
poor soul!"

There was a pause.

"They were bitter proud people, with very
hot sense of injury. She was easily cast down.
They had never forgiven her or him, though I
believe they tried to do so. Edward never had
forgiven, and always said his brother had been
shamefully and cruelly taken in. He came there,
and said she was 'vulgar.' In short, she was
miserable. They gave her no rest, without, I
believe, intending to make her miserable. She
was delicate. Her spirits sank. She made no
bother. Very soon little Fred, Howard's son,
was born, which only made Lady Howard more
bitter against her. In short, when about eight
months of the year had run out, and the
exchange had been made, and we at home did
not know it, and when Howard might think of
coming back, she began to give way. Ah!
They were very harsh to her—a poor stranger
in the land—and Lady Howard, I believe,
wore her out with the harsh and cruel things
she was always saying—how that she had ruined
them all, and disgraced their family, with more
to that effect. At last, when a letter had
actually set out, flying home with the joyful
news that Howard was to start in a week, her
final sickness set in, and she pined away out of
this world. They did not reproach themselves,
for they were not conscious of having done anything.
The one that was shocked, as though
he had been suddenly wakened up from a dream,
was Edward."

"I know it, mamma!" said Lucy, impetuously.
"I could have told you that; he is full of
feeling."

"He is," said her mamma, smiling. "Well,
we may conceive Howard's arriving to find
such dreadful news waiting him. Edward met
him in France to tell him. It was terrible.
And yet it was not so much grief as fury. He
called Edward," added Mrs. Winter, in a low
voice, "murderer. And he said he would live
for no other end than to reckon with them all
one by one."

There was another pause. She went on:

"This was only a burst of insanity on
Howard's part. A year after, when he was
composed, he told them that he could not bear
to see them, and that he dared not forgive them.
Since then, seven years ago, he has wandered
about with his son. The old grief and fury
have given way, and gradually, I think, a love
the most overpowering for this child—a love
that is increasing every day and every hour—
is softening him; and the most wonderful proof
of his being softened is his coming here."

"And the boy?" asked the vicar's wife.

"A darling!" said Lucy, running to the
table. "Look here!" And she brought over
her photograph album.

In a moment they were all admiring a little
fellow in a Scotch dress, leaning, his hand in his
pocket, with a smile of composure—the smile of