ons of all that there is to be known, nor with a foolish desire to
appear to know it. On the other hand, they are perfectly capable of
understanding what is honourable or dishonourable, mean or generous, and
they are very tenacious of these principles, believing that in the
letter of the law is salvation. They are not vain of qualities and
powers not theirs; and, consequently, when they promise, they promise
what they are able to perform. Occasionally such characters appear in
"society,"--rare creatures, in whom a pernicious education has not
spoiled the simplicity and honesty which is their only virtue. They fall
naturally into the position of confessors to the community, for the
community requires confessors of some sort. In them confides the
hardened sinner bursting with evil deeds and the accumulation of petty
naughtiness. To them comes the beardless ass, simpering from his first
adventure, and generally "afraid he has compromised" the mature woman of
the world, whom he has elected to serve, desiring to know what he ought
to do about it. To them, too, comes sometimes the real sufferer with his
or her little tale of woe, hesitatingly told, half hinted, hoping to be
wholly understood. They are good people, these social confessors, though
they seldom give much advice. Nevertheless, it is such a help to tell
one's story and hear how it sounds!

Lady Victoria was not a woman of surpassing intellect; perhaps she had
no intellect at all. She belonged to the confessors above referred to.
She was the soul of honour, of faith, and of secrecy. People were always
making confidences to her, and they always felt the better for
it--though she herself could not imagine why. And so even Margaret came
and told her troubles. Only, as Margaret was really intelligent, she did
not hesitate or make any fuss about telling, when once she had made up
her mind. The story was, indeed, public property by this time, and Lady
Victoria was sure to know it all before long from other people. When
Margaret had finished, she laid down her work and looked out of the
window, waiting.

"I need not tell you I am sorry," said Lady Victoria. "You know that, my
dear. But what will you do? It will be so very awkward for you, you
know."

"I hardly can tell yet--what would you do in my place?"

"Let me see," said the English girl. "What would I do? You must have a
Russian minister here somewhere. I think I would send for him, if I were
you."

"But it take