"Is not this rather"—
"Impertinent from a daughter, you mean to say. You know I don't want to be impertinent, mamma; but I'm old enough to be of some use, and I mean to be, too, whether your ladyship is quite satisfied or not. Are you aware that papa will be here to-morrow?"
"It is natural that he should come here, as his mother is ill."
"And when he comes, we must do what we can to help him to bear his afflictions, I suppose."
"Certainly."
"Well, we won't pass any more votes of censure, mamma, will we? And we shall forgive him his trespasses, shall we not?"
To this Lady Helena made no reply; but her face wore a new and a softer expression. This encouraged Edith, who continued:—
"He has suffered enough. He has been living all by himself in a miserable little French town on the Loire. I have a whole heap of his letters. He told me every thing about his situation. Grandpapa has been allowing him three hundred a-year—he has never touched a penny of it; it is paid regularly to grandmamma Stanburne, who does not know that she is ruined, and who fancies that papa has an allowance, and lives abroad for his pleasure. His letters to her are all about amusements, but he writes to me sincerely, and I know what his life has been. He has got a post as English master in a school, and they pay him twenty-five francs a-week, but he gives lessons in the town, and gets two francs a lesson, only he has not many of these. He is en pension in an inn. It is a miserably lonely life. I would have gone to him, but I could not leave grandmamma."
Lady Helena's eyes glistened in the firelight. They were brimming with tears. "You should have told me this sooner, Edith," she said, at last.
"Would you have gone to him? Would you have gone to live with him there, in his lodgings, and cheer him after his day's work?"