It was just the same with the poor on the estate; she was a friend to each one, man, woman or child.  Her face was like a sunbeam in the cottages, yet she was by no means unwise or indiscriminate in her charities.  When the people had employment she gave nothing but kind words; where they were industrious, and could not get work, she helped them liberally; where they were idle, and would not work, “my lady” lectured with grave sweetness that was enough to convert the most hardened sinner.

Every one sought her in distress, her loving sweetness of disposition was so well known.  Great ladies came from London sometimes, looking world-worn and weary, longing for comfort and sympathy.  She gave it so sweetly, no wonder they had desired it.

It was the same thing on our own estate.  If husband and wife quarreled, it was to my mother they appealed—­if a child seemed inclined to go wrong, the mother at once came to her for advice.

Was it any wonder that I, her only child, loved her so passionately when every one else found her so sweet, beautiful and good?

CHAPTER II.

Lady Conyngham, who was one of the most beautiful and fashionable women in London, came to spend a week with my mother.  I knew from different little things that had been said she had some great trouble with her husband, but of course I did not know in the least what it was about.

As a rule, my mother sent me away on some pretext or other when they had their long conversations; on this particular day she forgot me.  When Lady Conyngham began to talk I was behind my mother’s chair with a book of fairy tales.  The first thing that aroused my attention was a sob from Lady Conyngham and my mother saying to her: 

“It is quite useless, you know, Isabel, to struggle against the inevitable.”

“It is very well for you, Beatrice, to talk in that fashion, you who have never had a trouble in your own life; now, have you?”

“No,” replied my beautiful mother, “not a real trouble, thank Heaven,” and she clasped her white hands in gratitude.

“Then you cannot judge.  You mean well, I know, when you advise me to be patient; but, Beatrice, suppose it were your husband, what should you do?”

“I should do just what I am advising you to do; I should be patient, Isabel.”

“You would.  If Sir Roland neglected you, slighted you, treated you with indifference, harder to bear than hate, if he persisted in thrusting the presence of your rivals on you, what should you do?”

“Do you mean to ask me, really and truly, what I should do in that case?” asked my dear mother.  “Oh, Isabel, I can soon tell you that; I should die.”

“Die—­nonsense!” cried Lady Conyngham.  “What is the use of dying?—­the very thing they want.  I will not die;” but my mother had laid her fair head back on the velvet pillow, and her eyes lingered on the clear blue sky.  Was she looking for the angels who must have heard her voice?