‘Ah!’ exclaimed Maria, ‘that is what comes of trusting any one. I was so ill when I found out how it had been, that I could not keep it from nurse, but from mamma I did--my poor father being just gone and all--I could not have had her know how much I felt it--the discovery I mean--and it is what I wish her never to do. But oh! Mrs. Kendal, think what it was to find out that when I had been thinking he had been only trifling with me all those years, to find that he had been so unkindly treated. There was his own dear letter to me never unsealed; and there was another to my father saying in a proud-spirited way that he did not know what he had done to be so served, and he wished I might find happiness, for I would never find one that loved me as well. I who had turned against him in my heart!’ ‘It was cruel indeed! And you kept it from your mother!’ said Albinia, beginning to honour her. ‘My poor father was just gone, you know, and I could not be grieving her with what was passed and over, and letting her know that my father had broken my heart, as indeed I think he did, though he meant it all for the best. But oh! I thought it hard when Lucy had married the handsomest man in the country, and gone out to India, without a word against it, that I might not please myself, because I was papa’s favourite.’ ‘It was very hard not to be made aware of his intentions.’ ‘Yea,’ said Maria; ‘for it gave me such a bitter, restless feeling against him--though I ought to have known him better than to think he would give one minute’s pain he could help; and then when I knew the truth, the bitterness all went to poor papa’s memory, and yet perhaps he never meant to be unkind either.’ Albinia said some kind words, and Maria went on: ‘But what I wanted to say was this--Please don’t let mamma suspect one bit about it; and next, if Edmund would not mind showing him a little attention. Do you think he would, my dear? I do so wish that he should not think we were hurt by his marriage, and you see, two lone women can do nothing to make it agreeable; besides that, it would not be proper.’ ‘Is his wife living?’ ‘My dear, I could not make up my tongue to ask--the poor dear boy there and all--but it is all the same. I hope she is, for I would not see him unhappy, and you don’t imagine I have any folly in my head--oh, no! for I know what a fright the fret and the wear of this have made me; and besides, I never could leave mamma. So I trust his wife is living to make him happy, and I shall be more at peace now I have seen him again, since he turned his horse at Bobble’s Leigh, and said I should soon hear from him again.’ ‘Indeed I think you will be happier. There is something very soothing in taking up old feelings and laying them to rest. I hope even now there is less pain than pleasure.’