For the time nobody thought of Elizabeth.  The hapless cause of all stood “spectatress of the fray” beside her kitchen fire.  What she thought history saith not.  Whether in her own rough home she was used to see brothers and sisters quarrelling, and mothers boxing their childrens’ ears, can not be known; whether she was or was not surprised to see the same proceedings among ladies and gentlemen, she never betrayed, but certain it is that the little servant became uncommonly serious; yes, serious rather than sulky, for her “black” looks vanished gradually, as soon as Miss Selina left the kitchen.

On the reappearance of Miss Hilary it had quite gone.  But Hilary took no notice of her; she was in search of Johanna, who, shaking and cold with agitation, came slowly down stairs.

“Is she gone to bed?”

“Yes, my dear.  It was the best thing for her; she is not at all well to-day.”

Hilary’s lip curled a little, but she replied not a word.  She had not the patience with Selina that Johanna had.  She drew her elder sister into the little parlor, placed her in the arm-chair, shut the door, came and sat beside her, and took her hand.  Johanna pressed it, shed a quiet tear or two, and wiped them away.  Then the two sisters remained silent, with hearts sad and sore.

Every family has its skeleton in the house:  this was theirs.  Whether they acknowledged it or not, they knew quite well that every discomfort they had, every slight jar which disturbed the current of household peace, somehow or other originated with “poor Selina.”  They often called her “poor” with a sort of pity—­not unneeded.  Heaven knows! for if the unhappy are to be pitied, ten times more so are those who make others miserable.

This was Selina’s case, and had been all her life.  And, sometimes, she herself knew it.  Sometimes, after an especially bad outbreak, her compunction and remorse would be almost as terrible as her passion; forcing her sisters to make every excuse for her; she “did not mean it,” it was only “ill health,” or “nerves,” or her “unfortunate way of taking things.”

But they knew in their hearts that not all their poverty and the toils it entailed, not all the hardships and humiliation of their changed estate, were half so bitter to bear as this something—­no moral crime, and yet in its results as fatal as crime—­which they called Selina’s “way.”

Ascott was the only one who did not attempt to mince matters.  When a little boy he had openly declared he hated Aunt Salina; when he grew up he as openly defied her, and it was a most difficult matter to keep even decent peace between them.  Hilary’s wrath had never gone further than wishing Selina was married, that appearing the easiest way of getting rid of her.  Latterly she had ceased this earnest aspiration; it might be, because, learning to think more seriously of marriage, she felt that a woman who is no blessing in her own household, is never likely much to bless a husband’s; and that, looking still farther forward, it was, on the whole, a mercy of Providence, which made Selina not the mother of children.