Lady Lodore smiled, and said, "I were strangely blind to the defects of my own character, and to the consequences of my actions, were I not conscious of my errors; but retrospection is useless, and the punishment has been--is--sufficiently severe. Lodore himself would not have perpetuated his resentment, had he lived only a very little while longer. But I will speak frankly to you, Bessy, as frankly as I may, and you shall decide on my further stay here. From circumstances which it is immaterial to explain, I have resolved on retiring into absolute solitude. I shall never live in London again--never again see any of my old friends and acquaintances. The course of my life is entirely changed; and whether I live here or elsewhere, I shall live in obscurity and poverty. I do not wish Ethel to know this. She would wish to assist me, and she has scarcely enough for herself. I do not like being a burthen--I do not like being pitied--I do not like being argued with, or to have my actions commented upon. You know that my disposition was always independent." Mrs. Elizabeth assented with a sigh, casting up her eyes to heaven. Lady Lodore smiled, and went on. "You think this is a strange place for me to live in: whether here or elsewhere, I shall never live in any better: I shall be fortunate if I find myself as well off when I leave Essex, for the people here are good and honest, and the poor girl loves me,--it is always pleasant to be loved." A tear again filled Cornelia's eyes--she tried to animate herself to smile. "I have nothing to love in all the wide world except Ethel; I do love her; every one must love her--she is so gentle--so kind--so warm-hearted and beautiful,--I love her more than my own heart's blood; she is my child--part of that blood--part of myself--the better part; I have seen little of her, but every look and word is engraved on my heart. I love her voice--her smiles--the pressure of her soft white hand. Pity me, dear Bessy, I am never to see any of these, which are all that I love on earth, again. This idea fills me with regret--with worse--with sorrow. There is a grave not far from here which contains one you loved beyond all others,--what would you not give to see him alive once again? To visit his tomb is a consolation to you. I must not seen even the walls within which my blessed child lives. You alone can help me--can be of comfort to me. Do not refuse--do not send me away. If I leave this place, I shall go to some secluded nook in Wales, and be quite--quite alone; the sun will shine, and the grass will grow at my feet, but my heart will be dead within me, and I shall pine and die. I have intended to do this; I have waited only till the sufferings of the poor woman here should be at an end, that I may be of service to Margaret, and then go. Your visit, which I fancied meant in kindness, has put other thoughts into my head.