“I loved the child. Therefore she was glad when it died, glad that she had the power to wound me. Its death was no more to her than a weapon with which to punish me! There was a tone in her letter—I have it still—which betrayed that. And, therefore—therefore, for the child’s sake, I will never forgive her!” “I am sorry,” she murmured in a voice which acknowledged defeat. “I am very sorry.” He stood for a moment gazing at the blank space above the fireplace; his head sunk, his shoulders brought forward. He looked years older than the man who had walked under the elms. At length he made an effort to speak in his usual tone. “Yes,” he said, “it is a sorry business.” “And I,” she said slowly, “can do nothing.” “Nothing,” he replied. “Time will cure this, and all things.” “You are sure that there is no mistake?” she pleaded. “That you are not judging her harshly?” “There is no mistake.” Then she saw the hopelessness of argument and held out her hand. “Forgive me,” she said simply. “I have given you pain, and for nothing. But the old days were so strong upon me—after I saw her—that I could not but come. Think of me at least as a friend, and forgive me.” He bowed low over her hand, but he gave her no assurance. And seeing that he was mastering his agitation, and fearing that if he had leisure to think he might resent her interference, she wasted no time in adieux. She glanced round the well-remembered hall—the hall once smart, now shabby—in which she had seen the flighty girl play many a mad prank. Then she turned sorrowfully to the door, more than suspecting that she would never pass through it again. He had rung the bell, and Mapp, the butler, and the two men were in attendance. But he handed her to the carriage himself, and placed her in it with old-fashioned courtesy, and with the same scrupulous observance stood bareheaded until it moved away. None the less, his face by its set expression betrayed the nature of the interview; and the carriage had scarcely swept clear of the grounds and entered the park when Lady Louisa turned to her mother. “Was he very angry?” she asked, eager to be instructed in the mysteries of that life which she was entering. Lady Lansdowne essayed to snub her. “My dear,” she said, “it is not a fit subject for you.” “Still, mother dear, you might tell me. You told me something, and it is not fair to turn yourself into Mrs. Fairchild in a moment. Besides, while you were with him I came on a passage so beautiful, and so pat, it almost made me cry.” “My dear, don’t say ‘pat,’ say ‘apposite.’” “Then apposite, mother,” Lady Louisa answered. “Do you read it. There it is.” Lady Lansdowne sniffed, but suffered the book to be put into her hand. Lady Louisa pointed with enthusiasm to a line. “Is it a case like that, mother?” she asked eagerly.