"That's what I mean, Susan, and I believe you are so very good you practise it; but it is not strange I dreaded to see your face; and all that Juliet told me of you and your children, bringing up to be a blessing and honour to the land, made me more and more ashamed of myself. Thank God, I never had a child. I do love Juliet—you see I am not fit to take care of her—but I did not always tyrannise over her—not when—"
"Not when you were yourself, Paulina." Paulina nodded assent: she had not courage in words to confess her intemperance. "Juliet was true to you," continued Susan; "she seems grateful for your kindness to her."
"Does she—does Juliet feel grateful to me?"
"She does, Paulina; and that ought to be a comfort to you."
"It is—it is; thank God, there is one creature on earth the better for my having lived! My life! Oh God, forgive me!—poor Juliet—when I am gone, Susan, you will see to her, won't you?"
"I will do the best I can."
"Thank you, Susan; then I shall die easy as to her. I have done but little, though I never quite lost sight of my promise to her poor dying mother."
"Who was her mother, Paulina?"
"No one that you ever heard of. She called her name Maria Brown. I never saw her till she was near her death. The night before she died I sat behind her, and held her up while she wrote a few lines, and, taking a miniature from her neck, sealed them up together. She was so weak she fainted then, and when she came to she said she
