Lady William began to speak: then hesitated, became husky, and paused a moment to steady her voice. ‘There is nothing to tell about your father, Mab, that could affect you; nothing that would hurt his name in the world; only private matters between him and me, in which unfortunately Mrs. Swinford was mixed up. There is no such thing,’ she went on after a pause, with a sort of painful smile, ‘as trouble--without faults on both sides. I was to blame as much as any one else. You would not think the better of either of your parents if you were to be told all that there is to tell. Will you take my word for that? and that there is nothing which it is at all necessary for you to hear?’ ‘Certainly, I will take your word, mother. But I don’t believe you were so much wrong. You are hasty sometimes, but you never keep on or nag. And sometimes you are so patient; if there were quarrels I know it was not your fault.’ The girl came to her mother’s side and gave her a kiss, putting down her soft young cheek upon Lady William’s, which was as soft, though no longer young. The mother took the kiss with a smile. It was not wholly a smile of pleasure at Mab’s approval and vindication of her--innocent Mab that knew of nothing but a quarrel, a difference of opinion, a nagging. Mab thought it was a great pity, that perhaps her father had troubles of temper which she was conscious herself of possessing, and that no doubt Mrs. Swinford had interfered and made things worse. It brought her father even a little nearer to her to learn that he had been cross. Poor father! he had been long forgiven and his tempers forgotten, when they were not thrust back upon the memory: and poor mother, who perhaps blamed herself more than was just, and thought now how often she might have answered with a soft word! Lady William smiled, reading in the child’s mind as in a book, so easy was that young interpretation, so desirable, so strange to the woman who knew all. The afternoon was radiant: sky and air had been washed clean, as Mab said, by frequent showers, and there did not seem an atom of impurity, not even a cloudlet that was not white and shining, in the whole expanse of atmosphere. Lady William was grave, but had recovered her composure, and Mab was gay with an unusual freshness, ready to gambol about the path like the large loose-limbed puppy from the lodge who was fond of taking walks with visitors, and who came up and offered himself as guide and companion as soon as the two ladies had entered the gate. Mab was acquainted with the puppy’s family for several generations, and knew his mother upon intimate terms, so that there was no need of ceremony. He and she had gone up the avenue to the point at which the house becomes visible, rising high above the little lake and among the trees, when Lady William called her daughter back. ‘You have had enough of the puppy,’ she said; ‘now you must turn into a young lady, Mab.’