"Madam, the way is rough and the gate strait, and 'few there be that find it.'[3] And I don't think Mr. Philip likes rough walking. But the Lord kens that too. If he have been given to Christ of the Father, he'll have to come--'shall come to Me'[4]--and he'll find no more to greet over than the rest of the children when we all get Home to the Father's House. 'Neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand.'"[5] Lady Ingram did not return from the Palace before eight o'clock in the evening, and then in an exceedingly bad temper. Fashionably so, only; she was much too accomplished and polished to go into a vulgar passion. Thérèse discovered the state of her mistress's mind when she found that she could do nothing to please her. The new dress, of which Lady Ingram had expressed her full approbation in the morning, was declared "_effroyante_" at night; and Thérèse had to alter the style of her lady's hair five times before she condescended to acknowledge herself satisfied. At length she appeared in her boudoir, and after breakfast, instead of paying her usual visit to Celia's room, sent a message desiring Celia to come to her. "Are you not well, Madam?" was Celia's natural query, when she saw how pale and heavy-eyed Lady Ingram looked. "Well! yes, my dear; but I have scarcely slept. I left fifteen hundred pounds behind me at that horrible lansquenet." Celia's eyes opened rather wide. The sum indicated was almost incredible to her simple apprehension. "My dear," said Lady Ingram, pettishly, "you are still only half-formed. Do not open your eyes in that way--it makes you look astonished. A woman of the world never wonders." "I am not a woman of the world, Madam." "Then my lessons have been of very little use to you. I am afraid you are not, really, and never will be. That reminds me of what I wished to say to you. I am informed by some one who saw you, that after you and Philip left me in the saloon of the Duchess, he took you into the great drawing-room, and that at something you saw there you burst into tears. Now really, my dear, this is totally inadmissible. You scandalized those who saw you. Had you heard some dreadful news, or some such thing, it might have been proper and even laudable to shed a few tears; but actually to sob, in the sight of all the world, just as any laundress or orange-girl might have done,--really, Celia, you must get over this weakness!" "I beg your pardon, Madam," replied Celia, timidly, "but really I could not help it. There was a lady at the card-table who had lost a great deal--at least Philip thought so--and she began speaking such horrible words that it terrified me; I could not help it."