"It is impossible to see Miss Fitzhenry and not to wish to be intimate," replied Villiers with his usual frankness. "I, at least, cannot help being deeply interested in every thing that relates to her." "You are very good to take concern in my little girl. I should have imagined that you were too young yourself to like children." "Children!" repeated Villiers, much amazed; "Miss Fitzhenry!--she is not a child." Lady Lodore scarcely heard him; a sudden pang had shot across her heart, to think how strangers--how every one might draw near her daughter, and be interested for her, while she could not, without making herself the tale of the town, the subject, through the medium of news-papers, for every gossip's tea-table in England--where her sentiments would be scanned, and her conduct criticized--and this through the revengeful feelings of her husband, prolonged beyond the grave. Tears had been gathering in her eyes during the last moments; she turned her head to hide them, and a quick shower fell on her silken dress. Quite ashamed of this self-betrayal, she exerted herself to overcome her emotion. Villiers felt awkwardly situated; his first impulse had been to rise to take her hand, to soothe her; but before he could do more than the first of these acts, as Lady Lodore fancied for the purpose of taking his leave, she said, "It is foolish to feel as I do; yet perhaps more foolish to attempt to conceal from one, as well acquainted as you are with every thing, that I do feel pained at the unnatural separation between me and Ethel, especially when I think of the publicity I must incur by asserting a mother's claims. I am ashamed of intruding this subject on you; but she is no longer the baby cherub I could cradle in my arms, and you have seen her lately, and can tell me whether she has been well brought up--whether she seems tractable--if she promises to be pretty?" "Did you not think her lovely?" cried Villiers with animation; "you saw her last night, taking my arm." "Ethel!" cried the lady. "Could that be Ethel? True, she is now sixteen--I had indeed forgot"--her cheeks became suffused with a deep blush as she remembered all the solicisms she had been committing. "She is sixteen," she continued, "and a woman--while I fancied a little girl in a white frock and blue sash: this alters every thing. We have been indeed divided, and must now remain so for evermore. I will not injure her, at her age, by making her the public talk--besides, many, many other considerations would render me fearful of making myself responsible for her future destiny." "At least," said Villiers, "she ought to wait on you."