“I am not as strong as you, Isabel,” she said, gently, “and I love Sir Roland with my whole heart.”

“I loved my husband with my whole heart,” sobbed the beautiful woman, “and I have done nothing in this world to deserve what I have suffered.  I loved him with a pure, great affection—­what became of it?  Three days after we were married I saw him myself patting one of the maids—­a good-looking one, you may be sure—­on the cheek.”

“Perhaps he meant no harm,” said my mother, consolingly; “you know that gentlemen do not attach so much importance as we do to these little trifles.”

“You try, Beatrice, how you would like it; you have been married ten years, and even at this date you would not like Sir Roland to do such a thing?”

“I am sure I should not; but then, you know, there are men and men.  Sir Roland is graver in character than Lord Conyngham.  What would mean much from one, means little from the other.”

So, with sweet, wise words, she strove to console and comfort this poor lady, who had evidently been stricken to the heart in some way or another.  I often thought of my mother’s words, “I should die,” long after Lady Conyngham had made some kind of reconciliation with her husband, and had gone back to him.  I thought of my mother’s face, as she leaned back to watch the sky, crying out, “I should die.”

I knew that I ought not to have sat still; my conscience reproached me very much; but when I did get up to go away mamma did not notice me.  From that time it was wonderful how much I thought of “husbands.”  They were to me the most mysterious people in the world—­a race quite apart from other men.  When they spoke of any one as being Mrs. or Lady S——­’s husband, to me he became a wicked man at once.  Some were good; some bad.  Some seemed to trust their wives; others to be rather frightened than otherwise at them.  I studied intently all the different varieties of husbands.  I heard my father laugh often, and say: 

“Bless the child, how intently she looks and listens.”

He little knew that I was trying to find out for myself, and by my mother’s wit, which were good husbands and which were bad.  I did not like to address any questions to my parents on the subject, lest they should wonder why the subject interested me.

Once, when I was with my mother—­we were walking up and down the picture gallery—­I did venture to ask her: 

“Mamma, what makes husbands bad?  Why do they make their wives cry?”

How my beautiful mother looked at me.  There were laughter, fun and pain in her eyes altogether.

“What makes my darling ask such a question?” she replied.  “I am very surprised:  it is such a strange question for my Laura to ask!  I hope all husbands are good.”

“No, not all,” I hastened to answer; “Lady Conyngham’s was not—­I heard her say so.”

“I am sorry you heard it—­you must not repeat it; you are much too young to talk about husbands, Laura.”