I was born in a lodging at Brighthelmston, whither my father had conveyed my mother. The town, which has always possessed an attraction for me, was at that time a very paltry affair of scattered houses, to which the mumpish or melancholic came periodically to salt their spleens against a fresh course of dissipations. Locality has never, however, influenced my temper. The perfume of contentment breathes from within, and is not to be affected by soil or surroundings. Let us who have good constitutions continue, as the way is, to accept them for virtues, and to abhor the dyspeptic as unclean. Let us have the discretion to ask no questions of our neighbours about what we don’t understand in this entertaining comedy of life. So shall we justify ourselves to ourselves, and avoid being made uncomfortable. Is it not so, my friend? My mother had never, I do believe, had a doll till I came. She was very young, even then, and could not tire of playing with me in our pretty cottage near the Steine. And I responded in all endearing gaiety and innocence, with the very trustfulness of which she must, I fear, have come to reproach her apostasy. Maybe she did, for, as time went on, I can recall a cloud settling upon her brow--the shadow, perhaps, of the yoke under which she was passing from girlhood to womanhood. I was already four _when she came of age_. O, _mon chéri_! think of the tragedy of those italics! And think of me, a child of a precocious observation, and little ears as pinkly susceptible to murmurs as the inside of a shell, doomed to wake--wake to some misty understanding of the unusual in our relations! By and by I even confided my suspicions to my father, whom I adored, and who visited us occasionally, coming down from town very elegant and _mondain_ and in great company. He laughed, and then frowned over at mamma, who returned his look steadily. “Dear sir,” she said only, “the child is growing very critical. Do not encourage her, and make this cross harder than I can bear.” “But I too have a cross,” I said; “only it is little and faint, and not blushing like _maman’s_.” My papa laughed again, and again frowned, saying, “It is a fact, and hard on the infant, who has done nothing to deserve it.” Then he pushed me from him, and rose, and, going to the door, turned at it with a peevish face. “I weary of these heroics,” said he. “If you persist in them, remember that you are qualified, more than ever, for les Madelonnettes.” He went; and she cried out, as if over some dreadful awakening. But thenceforth, for some reason, our confidences grew estranged. I loved my poor mamma so well, that I think she should not have responded by striving to make heir to her melancholy the innocent cause of it. At the root of all our moral revolt is a sense of the injustice of original sin. I, at least, had done nothing to make me unhappy.