‘Poor fellow!’ said the Doctor, filling his glass.

‘If there be any person in the world whom I pity,’ said Venetia, ’’tis an orphan.  Oh! what should I be without mamma?  And Plantagenet, poor Plantagenet! he has no mother, no father.’  Venetia added, with a faltering voice:  ’I can sympathise with him in some degree; I, I, I know, I feel the misfortune, the misery;’ her face became crimson, yet she could not restrain the irresistible words, ’the misery of never having known a father,’ she added.

There was a dead pause, a most solemn silence.  In vain Venetia struggled to look calm and unconcerned; every instant she felt the blood mantling in her cheek with a more lively and spreading agitation.  She dared not look up; it was not possible to utter a word to turn the conversation.  She felt utterly confounded and absolutely mute.  At length, Lady Annabel spoke.  Her tone was severe and choking, very different to her usual silvery voice.

’I am sorry that my daughter should feel so keenly the want of a parent’s love,’ said her ladyship.

What would not Venetia have given for the power or speech! but it seemed to have deserted her for ever.  There she sat mute and motionless, with her eyes fixed on the table, and with a burning cheek, as if she were conscious of having committed some act of shame, as if she had been detected in some base and degrading deed.  Yet, what had she done?  A daughter had delicately alluded to her grief at the loss of a parent, and expressed her keen sense of the deprivation.

It was an autumnal afternoon:  Doctor Masham looked at the sky, and, after a long pause, made an observation about the weather, and then requested permission to order his horses, as the evening came on apace, and he had some distance to ride.  Lady Annabel rose; the Doctor, with a countenance unusually serious, offered her his arm; and Venetia followed them like a criminal.  In a few minutes the horses appeared; Lady Annabel bid adieu to her friend in her usual kind tone, and with her usual sweet smile; and then, without noticing Venetia, instantly retired to her own chamber.

And this was her mother; her mother who never before quitted her for an instant without some sign and symbol of affection, some playful word of love, a winning smile, a passing embrace, that seemed to acknowledge that the pang of even momentary separation could only be alleviated by this graceful homage to the heart.  What had she done?  Venetia was about to follow Lady Annabel, but she checked herself.  Agony at having offended her mother, and, for the first time, was blended with a strange curiosity as to the cause, and some hesitating indignation at her treatment.  Venetia remained anxiously awaiting the return of Lady Annabel; but her ladyship did not reappear.  Every instant, the astonishment and the grief of Venetia increased.  It was the first domestic difference that had occurred between them.  It shocked her