The meeting, as ever, between aunt and niece was affectionate. Fanny was welcomed, the baby was kissed, and little Clorinda admired, but the theme nearest Ethel's heart was speedily introduced--her mother. The disquietudes she felt on her account--Mr. Saville's journey to Paris--the visit of Villiers to Wales to discover her place of concealment--the inutility of all their endeavours. "But why are they so anxious?" asked her aunt; "I can understand you: you have some fantastic notion about your mother, but how can Mr. Villiers desire so very much to find her?" "I could almost say," said Ethel, "that Edward is more eager than myself, though I should wrong my own affection and gratitude; but he was more unjust towards her, and thus he feels the weight of obligation more keenly; but, perhaps, dear aunt, you do not know all that my dearest mother has done for us--the unparalleled sacrifices she has made." Then Ethel went on to tell her all that Mr. Gayland had communicated--the sale of her jointure--the very small residue of money she had kept for herself--the entire payment of Villiers's debts--and afterwards the surrender of the remainder of her income and of her house to them. Her eyes glistened as she spoke; her heart, overflowing with admiration and affection, shone in her beautiful face, her voice was pregnant with sensibility, and her expressions full of deep feeling. Mrs. Elizabeth's heart was not of stone--far from it; it was, except in the one instance of her sister-in-law, made of pliable materials. She heard Ethel's story--she caught by sympathy the tenderness and pity she poured forth--she thought of Lady Lodore at the cottage, a dwelling so unlike any she had ever inhabited before--poverty-stricken and mean; she remembered her praises of it--her cheerfulness--the simplicity of taste which she displayed--the light-hearted content with which she spoke of every privation except the absence of Ethel. What before was mysterious wrong, was now manifest heroism. The loftiness and generosity of her mind rose upon the old lady unclouded; her own uncharitable deductions stung her with remorse; she continued to listen, and Ethel to narrate, and the big tears gathered in her eyes, and rolled down her venerable cheeks,--tears at once of repentance and admiration. CHAPTER XVIII Repentance is a tender sprite; If aught on earth have heavenly might, 'Tis lodged within her silent tear. WORDSWORTH.