“I don’t know very much about such matters,” said she, deprecatingly; “but I’m sure, ma’am, you ought to keep yourself quiet, and I wouldn’t hate the poor little baby if I were you.  It may be a very nice little thing, and turn out a great comfort to you.”

Mrs. Ascott lifted her heavy eyes to the kindly, sympathetic, womanly face—­thorough woman, for, as Elizabeth went on, her heart warmed with the strong instinct which comes almost of itself.

“Think, to have a tiny little creature lying here beside you; something your very own, with its pretty face looking so innocent and sweet at you, and its pretty fingers touching you.”  Here Elizabeth’s voice quite faltered over the picture she had drawn.  “Oh, ma’am, I’m sure you would be so fond of it.”

Human nature is strong.  This cold, selfish woman, living her forty years without any strong emotion, marrying without love, and reaping, not in contrition, but angry bitterness, the certain punishment of such a marriage, even this woman was not proof against the glorious mystery of maternity, which should make every daughter of Eve feel the first sure hope of her first born child to be a sort of Divine annunciation.

Mrs. Ascott lay listening to Elizabeth.  Gradually through her shut eyelids a few quiet tears began to flow.

“Do you mind me talking to you this way, ma’am?”

“No, no!  Say what you like.  I’m glad to have any body to speak to.  Oh, I am a very miserable woman!”

Strange that Selina Ascott should come to betray, and to Elizabeth Hand, of all people, that she was a “miserable woman.”  But circumstances bring about unforeseen confidences; and the confidence once given is not easily recalled.  Apparently the lady did not wish to recall it.  In the solitude of her splendid house, in her total want of all female companionship—­for she refused to have her sisters sent for—­“he would only insult them, and I’ll not have my family insulted”—­poor Selina clung to her old servant as the only comfort she had.

During the dreary months that followed, when, during the long, close summer days, the sick lady scarcely stirred from her bedroom, and, fretful, peevish, made the very most of what to women in general are such patiently borne and sacred sufferings, Elizabeth was her constant attendant.  She humored all her whims, endured all her ill-tempers, cheered her in her low spirits, and was, in fact, her mistress’s sole companion and friend.

This position no one disputed with her.  It is not every woman who has, as Miss Leaf used to say of Elizabeth, “a genius for nursing;” and very few patients make nursing a labor of love.  The whole household were considerably relieved by her taking a responsibility for which she was so well fitted and so little envied.  Even Mr. Ascott, who, when his approaching honors could no longer be concealed from him, became for the nonce a most attentive husband, and succumbed dutifully to every fancy his wife entertained, openly expressed his satisfaction in Elizabeth, and gave her one or two bright golden guineas in earnest of his gratitude.