ything about it!" exclaimed
Eleonora.

Jenny almost laughed. "Not know where poor Frank's heart is? You
don't guess how those sons live with their mother!"

"I suppose I have forgotten what sincerity and openness are," said
Eleonora, sadly. "But is not she very much vexed?"

"She was vexed to find it had gone so deep with him," said Jenny;
"but I know that you can earn her affection and trust by being
staunch and true yourself--and it is worth having, Lena!"

For Jenny knew Eleonora of old, through Emily's letters, and had no
doubt of her rectitude, constancy, and deep principle, though she
was at the present time petrified by constant antagonism to such
untruthfulness as, where it cannot corrupt, almost always hardens
those who come in contact with it. And this cruel idea of self-
sacrifice was, no doubt, completing the indurating process.

Jenny knew the terrible responsibility of giving such advice. She
had not done it lightly. She had been feeling for years past that
"'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at
all;" and she knew that uncertainty of the right to love and trust
would have been a pang beyond all she had suffered. To give poor
Eleonora, situated as she now was, admission to the free wholesome
atmosphere of the Charnock family, was to her kind heart
irresistible; and it was pleasant to feel the poor girl clinging to
her, as people do to those who have given the very counsel the heart
craved for.

It was twilight when the walk was over, and the drawing-room was
empty; but Anne came to invite them to Mrs. Poynsett's tea, saying
that Cecil had Lady Tyrrell in her own sitting-room. Perhaps Mrs.
Poynsett had not realized who was Jenny's companion, for she seemed
startled at their entrance; and Jenny said, "You remember Lenore
Vivian?"

"I must have seen you as a child," said Mrs. Poynsett, courteously.
"You are very like your sister."

This, though usually a great compliment, disappointed Eleonora, as
she answered, rather frigidly, "So people say."

"Have you walked far?"

"To the Outwood Lodge."

"To-day? Was it not very damp in the woods?"

"Oh no, delightful!"

"Lena and I are old friends," said Jenny; "too glad to meet to heed
the damp."

Here Raymond entered, with the air of a man who had just locked up a
heavy post-bag at the last possible moment; and he too was amazed,
though he covered it by asking why the party was so small.

"Rosamond has gone to m