When Maria at length found herself alone, she gave way to tears that were perhaps more bitter than any she had hitherto shed. She had wept for herself, she had wept her fault, she had wept her degradation, but never did she feel that degradation so acutely as at this moment. Her sorrows appeared to her such guilty ones, that they revolted her; while Eleanor’s, on the contrary, wore a character of holiness, of sanctity. And that she should have filled the measure of her bitter cup,—that she should have crushed the broken spirit! oh! it was almost too much for endurance. The dressing-bell rang. It is wonderful how much those who have lived in the world, and whose feelings may be least under the salutary control of principle, mechanically submit to that of _les convenances_ of society. She repressed her tears, she calmed her sobs, dressed herself, and went down to dinner with a composed voice and tranquil manner. The dinner was as uncomfortable as one might expect it to be, under the existing circumstances. The succeeding days were passed in the same restraint. The moment never came in which they alluded to past events, and although they all felt kindly towards each other, there was not the free interchange of thought which alone renders a domestic circle truly happy. It was not till they had resided for some months under the same roof that the barrier of reserve between them was broken down. Soon after the birth of a second boy, Maria was lying on her sofa, while the young Edward was playing on the floor. Eleanor caught the expression of anguish with which Maria gazed on the eldest; their eyes met, and that glance revealed to each all that was passing in the mind of the other. At that moment all coldness, all reserve, was broken through. Throwing herself at the feet of her mother-in-law, and hiding her face in her hands, Maria sobbed out, “Forgive me! oh, forgive me! pardon the ruin I have brought on your son, the disgrace I have brought on your grandchild! No—no! it is impossible! kind and gentle as you are, you must—you must hate me, as well as despise me.” Touched and alarmed at this agony, Mrs. Fitz-Eustace raised her, soothed her, bade her be composed. But having once opened upon the subject, she poured forth all the pent-up feelings of remorse and shame that had so long been consuming her. They mingled their tears, and Eleanor’s gentle words of compassion and forgiveness restored her to something like composure.