world, with its blistering tongue, would be busy with her name, warping, twisting, inventing every thing--perhaps imputing shame to her, to her whose shield he should have been, to her whom he should have protected from every blow. And here must be exhibited one of the flaws in Frank Churchill's by-no-means-perfect character. His wife had taken a step which nothing could excuse, had given way to her passion; and, in obedience to the promptings of rage and jealousy, had done him an irreparable wrong, and covered them both with a reproach which would cling to them for life,--all this without any thing like adequate provocation on his part; so that he had been shamefully treated, and, had he been properly heroic, would have a fair claim upon your compassion, if not your admiration. But the truth is he was anything but a hero; notwithstanding the manner in which his hopes had been blighted and his life wrecked, notwithstanding his having been deserted in that apparently heartless way by his wife,--he loved her even then with a passionate devotion; and when he thought of her, perhaps vilified and calumniated, without her natural protector, wretched and perhaps solitary, he had almost determined to fling his pride--nay, what he knew to be his duty--to the winds, to rush after her and implore her to come back to his home, and to do with him what she would. Of course nothing could have been more degrading to him than such a proceeding, and it was fortunate that good advice was coming to him in the person of his mother. Coming in to pay her usual afternoon visit, the old lady walked straight to the study, and after tapping lightly at the door with her parasol-handle, she opened it and went in. She found her son seated at his desk, his head buried in his hands, which were supported by the projecting arms of the chair. His legs were stretched out before him, and he seemed lost in thought. He did not change his position at his mother's entrance, not until she addressed him by name; when, on raising his head, she saw the dull whiteness of his cheeks, and the bistre rings round his eyes. She noticed too that his hands shook, and on touching them they were hot and dry. "My boy," said the old lady, gently, "you're not well, I'm afraid! what's the matter with you? too much of this horrid work, or--why, good God, Frank, there are marks of tears on your face! What _is_ the matter,--what _has_ happened?" "Nothing, mother--nothing to me at least,--don't be alarmed, dearest; I'm all right enough." "Then Barbara's ill!" said Mrs. Churchill, rising from the seat she had taken. "I'll go to her at once, poor thing--" "You wouldn't find her, mother!" said Frank, in a very hollow voice. "She's not upstairs; she's gone!" "Gone! Gone where?" asked the old lady.