‘Then you are going, mother? in obedience to a call like that----’ ‘In obedience to nothing; because I hate it, and want to get it over.’ ‘Do you hate Mrs. Swinford, mother?’ ‘Oh, I hope not,’ said Lady William, the tears starting to her eyes; ‘don’t ask me such questions. I hope not: I don’t want to hate any one. I would rather not think of her. But I hate going into a house that has so many memories--into a house where I have known so much----’ ‘It was there you met my father,’ said Mab. ‘Yes;’ the monosyllable dropped from Lady William’s closed lips as if dropped out against her will. ‘But that ought not to be altogether a painful recollection, mother.’ Mab had never heard anything of her father who was so long dead; there was no portrait of him that she had ever seen. Her idea of him was not precisely a happy one. Other people talked of the husbands they had lost, especially the poor women who liked to enlarge upon the good or bad qualities of the departed--but Mab knew nothing of her father, whether he had been bad or good. And she had a great curiosity, if no more, to know something of him. It was seldom, very seldom, that an opportunity occurred even for a question. ‘I cannot enter into the past,’ said Lady William; ‘there is a great deal that is very painful in it. I would rather not tell you the story, Mab. It would do you no good, nor any one. I had forgotten a great deal till this lady appeared again. So far as I can see now, she is determined that I shall no longer forget.’ ‘Is she your enemy, mother?’ ‘I don’t believe in enemies, it is too melodramatic; and probably she means no harm; only she likes to stir up things which I prefer to forget. Do you understand the difference? Perhaps it keeps up her interest, but to me it spoils everything. Death is very dreadful to you, Mab; but it’s very merciful, too. It makes you forget many things, when they are not forcibly brought back to your mind.’ Mab eyed her mother very curiously with a hundred questions on her lips: but Lady William’s face was not encouraging, and with a sigh the girl gave up her intended inquiry. She added, after some time: ‘The only thing, mother, is that Mrs. Swinford may want to speak to you of things that you don’t wish me to know.’ ‘That is very possible, Mab: and it is for that I want you to go with me, to protect me. She would never bring up old stories which would be painful, before you.’ ‘Mother,’ said Mab, and then paused. ‘What is it?’ ‘I want to know--if I am perhaps at the mercy of a stranger like Mrs. Swinford to tell me things that would be painful--about my father--whether it would not be better for you, mother, who would do it in love and quietly, to tell me yourself and put me beyond her power?’ ‘Mab, you are very sensible, very reasonable.’ ‘I don’t know if I’m that: but it seems to me the better way.’