ay seemed to be with the poor
oppressed girl.

That luckless box containing the stones had first been ornamented with
a baron's coronet, when Beatrix was engaged to the young gentleman from
whom she parted, and afterwards the gilt crown of a duchess figured
on the cover, which also poor Beatrix was destined never to wear. Lady
Castlewood opened the case mechanically and scarce thinking what she
did; and behold, besides the diamonds, Esmond's present, there lay in
the box the enamelled miniature of the late Duke, which Beatrix had laid
aside with her mourning when the King came into the house; and which the
poor heedless thing very likely had forgotten.

"Do you leave this, too, Beatrix?" says her mother, taking the miniature
out, and with a cruelty she did not very often show; but there are some
moments when the tenderest women are cruel, and some triumphs which
angels can't forego.*

* This remark shows how unjustly and contemptuously even the
best of men will sometimes judge of our sex. Lady
Castlewood had no intention of triumphing over her daughter;
but from a sense of duty alone pointed out her deplorable
wrong.--H. E.

Having delivered this stab, Lady Castlewood was frightened at the effect
of her blow. It went to poor Beatrix's heart: she flushed up and passed
a handkerchief across her eyes, and kissed the miniature, and put it
into her bosom:--"I had forgot it," says she; "my injury made me forget
my grief: my mother has recalled both to me. Farewell, mother; I think I
never can forgive you; something hath broke between us that no tears
nor years can repair. I always said I was alone; you never loved me,
never--and were jealous of me from the time I sat on my father's knee.
Let me go away, the sooner the better: I can bear to be with you no
more."

"Go, child," says her mother, still very stern; "go and bend your
proud knees and ask forgiveness; go, pray in solitude for humility and
repentance. 'Tis not your reproaches that make me unhappy, 'tis your
hard heart, my poor Beatrix; may God soften it, and teach you one day to
feel for your mother."

If my mistress was cruel, at least she never could be got to own as
much. Her haughtiness quite overtopped Beatrix's; and, if the girl had a
proud spirit, I very much fear it came to her by inheritance.

CHAPTER XI.

OUR GUEST QUITS US AS NOT BEING HOSPITABLE ENOUGH.

Beatrix's departure took place within an hour, her maid go