The maladies of being thought ill of, of having her most innocent notions misconstrued, of hearing intentions imputed to her which she was utterly incapable of harbouring, had not fallen to her when young, and now taken in her maturer years they seemed so severe that it was almost impossible for her to endure them patiently. To be accused of toadying any person; that it should for a moment be supposed she could ever have mentioned the name of her family to Mr. Stewart, when, lest it might even seem as though she were thereby preferring any claim to old acquaintanceship on him, she had sedulously avoided all allusions to her former home, or any of her early recollections. “I—I—do such a thing!” she thought; “I pay court to him for his money; I, who detest money; I, who could live on the merest pittance anywhere and be happy; and who would rather live on a pittance than mix amongst hard, cruel, mercenary people; and to imply that I was such a wretch as to school my innocent child in deceit and affectation. Ah!” she reflected, softening a little; “it is plain she never was a mother; if she had been, she could not have imputed trickery of that kind to me;” which speech showed, not how much Heather knew of mothers, but how little she knew of the world. “It was cruel, though—” thus the mental strain ran on—“cruel to imagine such a thing; cruel to express it;” and Heather would probably have continued making these statements silently to her own heart, whilst her tears flowed as fast as her thoughts, had Lally not caused a diversion by stating: “You walk too quick, ma; you tire me.” Then Heather sat down upon one of the benches and caught Lally to her; she was ashamed that even for a moment her own anger should have made her forget the child’s possible weariness. She had gone on, dragging Lally after her, and the little one was both warm and tired with the unwonted exercise. “Are you hot, too, ma?” she asked, trying to push up her mother’s veil, an attempt which Heather strove too late to resist. “Oh! you’ve been crying, ma; you’ve been vexed; was it tall wicked lady? Never mind—Lally’s better—arn’t you glad Lally’s nearly better as well? Do not cry, pease, mamma—pease—pease.” And the poor, little, eager face puckered itself up to weep also; and the brown eyes—which had in them at times a look of Heather—filled with tears, and the thin arms twined themselves about her mother’s neck, and Lally became altogether very piteous on the subject of her mother’s grief. Looking out over the dancing sea, so bright, so sunshiny, so smooth, clasping her first-born to her heart, Heather felt that there was reason in the child’s words; that, seeing Lally’s health even partially restored, she had no right to weep or lament over any mere worldly grievance.