"That I was unhappy," said Lady Tyrrell, calmly, as she saw Mrs. Effingham hesitate. "At all events, that you might require and appreciate some consolation," said Mrs. Effingham. "Among the last things that he said to me were, 'I wish you could be near her; you might mutually support and console each other after I am gone;' and therefore it was that I first proposed to your husband to seek for me a house in this neighbourhood; accepted gladly what he proposed, when he offered to repair and let to me, what I hear is a very beautiful place, in the immediate vicinity, and did not refuse when he invited me to spend a week or ten days here, although Lady Tyrrell did not confirm the invitation." "Lady Tyrrell was, perhaps, very wrong not to do so," said the invalid; "but many circumstances prevented me from doing what, I sincerely assure you, I regret not to have done. Those circumstances would be tedious to explain, and even painful; for to do so would compel me to enter into the private particulars of the state of this house, which perhaps you may learn, ere long, by your own observation, but upon which I cannot myself dwell." "Say not a word, my dear Lady Tyrrell," replied Mrs. Effingham. "It is very possible that even Sir Francis Tyrrell himself, when he made the invitation, was not well aware whether he should regret it or not; for when I last saw him, on his visit to Northumberland several years ago, I do not know that we were the best friends in the world. It was with great difficulty that my husband could make me believe, that a man who professed to have little or no religion, except of a very vague and unsatisfactory nature, could be an upright, honest, and honourable man. I was wrong, I know; and he, on his part, was wrong too. Because I put forth, perhaps with a good deal of the vanity of youth--I was young then--somewhat more than necessary of my religious opinions in the presence of one I knew to be a skeptic and believed to be an infidel, he thought me a foolish fanatic, as well as a very disagreeable person. Those religious feelings, Lady Tyrrell, however, have since been more withdrawn into my own heart. I feel them more deeply than ever: I thence derive the only consolation that I know. They make me cheerful under sadness, and give me happiness because they render hope immortal; but I have since learned, that to display those feelings too frequently or obtrusively is a vanity which cannot be pleasing to God, and must naturally be offensive to man." Lady Tyrrell held out her hand to her. "I will acknowledge, my dear Mrs. Effingham," she said, "that I must have sadly misconstrued some of my husband's expressions in regard to you, and I thank you for all your candour and your confidence. Depend upon it, I will return it with pleasure and with comfort to myself."