‘My children have always been brought up to confide in their mother,’ said Mrs. Burchell, on the verge of tears; ‘they have always told me their impressions. Thank Heaven, though my lot is not luxurious like some people’s, I have always had comfort in my children.’ ‘That is a hit at you and me, Cherry, who have no children,’ said the old lady, who was sharp and keen after her illness. ‘My dear, we are quite willing to admit your superiority. What did the boy say?’ ‘I am sure there was no boasting in my mind. I have very little occasion to boast. A poor clergyman’s wife, with so large a family to bring up! but I _am_ proud of the confidence of my children. Dear Roger went to see Cara out of kindness. He has always had a kind feeling to her, and the poor boy’s heart was quite touched to see her among such people. They seem to live in an ungodly way, with dinner-parties on Sunday, and that sort of thing--no regard for poor servants or for the bad example they are setting. And as for the lady, Roger did not tell me all; but he says Mr. Beresford _stays_--stays after Cara goes home, and, in short, is never out of the house. I felt that you ought to be told. Gentlemen have very peculiar ideas, I know--they don’t follow our rules; but for a man to take his daughter, his young daughter, into such society----’ ‘Maria!’ Miss Cherry was speechless with horror and dismay. She managed to get out this ejaculation, and no more. But the old lady was less easily moved. She put on the spectacles to which she had taken quite lately, and looked into her visitor’s face. ‘Here is an odd thing now,’ she said, ‘a very odd thing. I am willing to suppose you are an innocent sort of woman, Maria Burchell. You never did anything very bad--for one thing, you have never been tempted--and yet you are ready to believe any evil, at the first word, of another woman whom you know nothing in the world about. It is the oddest thing I know. If you had been a wicked person, one could have understood it. But a clergyman’s wife, as you say, in a quiet country place, out of the way of temptation--why, you ought to think well of everybody! You ought to be the sort of person who could be taken in, who would not believe harm of anyone, an innocent woman like you!’ ‘Am I an innocent woman?’ said Mrs. Burchell, shaking her head, with a sad smile. The distinction, if flattering to her moral character, was derogatory to her dignity. ‘Ah, how little we know each other! and what is called charity is so often mere laxness of principle. I hope I know the depravity of my own heart.’