“Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, as soon as her daughter had been named, “I ought to have sent you to Henrietta before.”

“Very well,” said Beatrice, though her heart sank within her as she thought of her last attempt at consoling Henrietta.

“Go straight up to her,” continued her mother; “don’t wait to let her think whether she will see you or not.  I only wish poor Fred could do the same.”

“If I could but do her any good,” sighed Beatrice, as she opened the door and hastened upstairs.  She knocked, and entered without waiting for an answer:  Henrietta lifted up her head, came forward with a little cry, threw herself into her arms, and wept bitterly.  Mournful as all around was, there was a bright ray of comfort in Queen Bee’s heart when she was thus hailed as a friend and comforter.  She only wished and longed to know what might best serve to console her poor Henrietta; but all that occurred to her was to embrace and fondle her very affectionately, and call her by the most caressing names.  This was all that Henrietta was as yet fit to bear; and after a time, growing quieter, she poured out to her cousin all her grief, without fear of blame for its violence.  Beatrice was sometimes indeed startled by the want of all idea of resignation, but she could not believe that any one could feel otherwise,—­least of all Henrietta, who had lost her only parent, and that parent Aunt Mary.  Neither did she feel herself good enough to talk seriously to Henrietta; she considered herself as only sent to sit with her, so she did not make any attempt to preach the resignation which was so much wanted; and Henrietta, who had all day been hearing of it, and rebelling against it, was almost grateful to her.  So Henrietta talked and talked, the same repeated lamentation, the same dreary views of the future coming over and over again; and Beatrice’s only answer was to agree with all her heart to all that was said of her own dear Aunt Mary, and to assure Henrietta of the fervent love that was still left for her in so many hearts on earth.

The hours passed on; Beatrice was called away and Henrietta was inclined to be fretful at her leaving her; but she presently returned, and the same discourse was renewed, until at last Beatrice began to read to her, and thus did much to soothe her spirits, persuaded her to make a tolerable meal at tea-time, bathed her eyelids that were blistered with tears, put her to bed, and finally read her to sleep.  Then, as she crept quietly down to inquire after her mamma, and wish the others in the drawing-room good night, she reflected whether she had done what she ought for her cousin.

“I have not put a single right or really consoling thought into her head,” said she to herself; “for as to the reading, she did not attend to that.  But after all I could not have done it.  I must be better myself before I try to improve other people; and it is not what I deserve to be allowed to be any comfort at all.”