"Nothing. Nothing but what I tell you. She lives away her solitary years, not a day of them passing but she wishes to heaven that that one fatal act of hers could be recalled--the severing herself from her husband." "And he, Margaret?" "He? For aught I know to the contrary, he has been as happy since as he was before; perhaps, in his complete freedom, more so. She thought, poor woman, to work out her revenge upon him; instead of that, it was on herself she worked it out. Men and women are different. A separated man--say a divorced man if you like--can go abroad; here, there, and everywhere; and enjoy life without hindrance, and take his pleasure at will: but a woman, if she be a right-minded woman, must stay in her home-shell, and eat her heart away." Lucy Andinnian sighed. It was no doubt all too true. "I have related this for your benefit, Lucy. My dear little friend, at all costs, _stay with your husband_." "I should never think of leaving him for good as that other poor woman did," sobbed Lucy. "I should be dead of grief in a year." "True. Whatever your cross may be, my dear--and I cannot doubt that it is a very sharp and heavy one--take it up as bravely as you can, and bear it. No cross, no crown." Some of the school children came in for a lesson in fine work--stitching and gathering--and Lady Andinnian took her departure. She had not gained much comfort; she was just as miserable as it was possible to be. The church bell was going for the five o'clock evening service. Since the advent of St. Jerome's, Mr. Sumnor had opened his church again for daily service, morning and evening. This, however, was a Saint's day. A feeling came over poor Lucy that she should like to sob out her heart in prayer to God; and she slipped in. Not going down the aisle to their own conspicuous pew, but into an old-fashioned, square, obscure thing near the door, that was filled on Sundays with the poor, and hidden behind a pillar. There, unseen, unsuspected, she knelt on the floor, she lifted up her heart on high, sobbing silent sobs of agony, bitter tears raining from her eyes; asking God to hear and help her; to help her to bear. She sat out the service and grew composed enough to join in it. The pillar hid her from the clergyman's view; nobody noticed that she was there. So far as she could see, there were not above half-a-dozen people in the church. In going out, Mr. Sumnor and Mr. Moore's sister, Aunt Diana, came up to join her. "I did not know you were in church, Lady Andinnian," said the clergyman. "The bell was going when I left your house: I had been to see Margaret: so I stepped in," she replied. "But what a very small congregation!"