devotion to him? As for things going wrong, it was not true -- my mother, from her sofa, ordered the household, and I knew there was nothing wrong. 

When my father saw the angry, pained expression on my face, an idea seemed to occur to him. He called me to his side, and whispered to me: "You may run away and play, darling; and mind, Laura, you must never repeat one word of what you hear to your mother; it would not do to trouble her when little things go wrong." 

"Nothing has gone wrong," I answered. "Although she is ill, mamma sees to everything." 

I should have said much more, but that my father placed his hand over my mouth. 

"Hush! little one," he said. "I am afraid I give you too much license." 

"A little wholesome discipline needed," said Miss Reinhart; "but a sweet child, Sir Roland -- a sweet child, indeed!" 

I could not hear what followed, but I feel quite sure that she whispered something which ended in these words: "Too much with Lady Tayne." 

I ran, fast as I could go, anywhere -- where I could give vent to my childish fury. I could have stamped on her beautiful face. What right had she, a stranger, to talk about Mrs. Eastwood and mamma -- to talk to papa as though he were an injured man -- what right? 

I tried hard to keep all my indignation and anger, my fear and dread of what was to follow, to myself, but I could not bear it. I believe my heart would have broken but for Emma, my nurse. She found me behind the great cluster of laurel trees crying bitterly, and when she took me in her arms to console me, I told her all about it -- told her every word. I know how she listened in dismay, for her easy, bony face grew pale, and she said nothing for some few minutes, then she cried out: 

"Oh, Miss Laura, you must be good and patient; don't set yourself against her -- perhaps she means no harm." 

"She means harm and she will do it," I cried; "why should she speak in that tone to papa, and why does she look at him as though he were to be pitied because mamma is ill? It is mamma who wants pity; she is twenty times better lying there sick and ill than other mothers who are well and strong and go about everywhere." 

"God bless the child!" cried my nurse; "why of course she is. Now, Miss Laura, you know I love you, and what I say to 

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