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."

Of course I did not mention then again--equally of course I did not
think less of this mysterious kind of beings.

My beautiful mother was very happy with her husband, Sir Roland--she
loved him exceedingly, and he was devoted to her. The other ladies said
he spoiled her, he was so attentive, so devoted, so kind. I have met
with every variety of species which puzzled my childish mind, but none
so perfect as he was then.

"You do not know what trouble means, dear Lady Tayne." "With a husband
like yours, life is all sunshine." "You have been spoiled with
kindness!"

All these exclamations I used to hear, until I became quite sure that my
father was the best husband in the world.

On my tenth birthday my father would have a large ball, and he insisted
that I should be present at it. My mother half hesitated, but he
insisted; so, thanks to him, I have one perfectly happy memory. I
thought far more of my beautiful mother than myself. I stood in the
hall, watching her as she came down the great staircase, great waves of
shining silk and trailing laces making her train, diamonds gleaming in
her golden hair, her white neck and arms bare; so tall, slender and
stately, like the picture of some lovely young queen. Papa and I stood
together watching her.

"Let me kiss her first!" I cried, running to her.

"Mind the lace and diamonds, Laura," he cried.

"Never mind either, my darling," she said laughingly. "One kiss from you
is worth more than all."

Sir Roland kissed her and stood looking at her with admiring eyes.

"Do you know, Beatrice," he said, "that you grow younger and more
beautiful? It is dead swindle! I shall be a gray-bearded old man by the
time you have grown quite young again."

My sweet mother! she evidently enjoyed his praise; she touched