Mrs. Ringwood came back, looking rather discomfited. “Dear me,” said she, “I can’t find my keys—Oh, here they are!” And carrying them off, and her cap at the same time, she presently returned with a glass of wine and a biscuit, saying, “You really must take this.” In vain I assured her I was a water-drinker; I saw I should hurt her if I declined, and therefore took the glass, and put it to my lips, though I knew it would do me no good. “I don’t know what I should do without a glass of wine sometimes,” said she. “I hope baby has not been troublesome.” “O no! What a nice little fellow he is! How old is he?” So then ensued some baby-talk, which seemed to make us much better acquainted. “He must be a great resource to you,” said I. “Well, children are plagues as well as pleasures, sometimes,” said Mrs. Ringwood. “I often think people who have no families have no idea of what mothers go through.” “That is true enough, I dare say,” said I. “But the maternal instinct is implanted to make us insensible to those troubles—or, at least, indifferent to them.” “Oh, nobody can be indifferent to them, Mrs. Cheerlove! Duty is duty, and pleasure is pleasure; but they don’t amount to the same thing, for all that.” This was said with an asperity which seemed to place us miles apart again. The next moment she added, “At least, time was—when I was very young, you know, and fresh married—when I believe I really did think them one and the same thing.” She gave a little laugh, to hide a tear. “I don’t know how it may be with you,” said I, twining the baby’s little fingers round mine, “but I think in most people’s lives there are times when, all at once, they seem to break down under their burthens, and to need a friendly arm to set them up again.” “Some have not that friendly arm,” said she, her mouth twitching. “I only wish I had. Oh my goodness, Mrs. Cheerlove!”—suddenly becoming familiar and voluble—“you’ve no idea what a life mine is! These four walls, if they had tongues, could tell strange stories!” “Ah! what walls could not?” said I, hastening from particulars to generals. “We were not sent into this world to be happy——” “Well, _I_ think we _were_,” interrupted she; “and yours must be a strange, gloomy religion if it makes you think otherwise.” “At any rate, we cannot depend on being happy,” said I, “as long as our happiness is founded on anything in this world.” “Ah! there I agree with you,” said she, sighing profoundly; “there’s no trusting to anything, or any one, whether servant, friend, or husband—you find them all out at last.” She fixed her eyes on mine. “My lot,” said I, “was, I know, a favoured one; but I never found out anything of Mr. Cheerlove, but that he was a great deal better and wiser than myself.” She raised her eyebrows a little.