were to me the most mysterious people in the world--a race quite apart
from other men. When they spoke of any one as being Mrs. or Lady S----'s
husband, to me he became a wicked man at once. Some were good; some bad.
Some seemed to trust their wives; others to be rather frightened than
otherwise at them. I studied intently all the different varieties of
husbands. I heard my father laugh often, and say:

"Bless the child, how intently she looks and listens."

He little knew that I was trying to find out for myself, and by my
mother's wit, which were good husbands and which were bad. I did not
like to address any questions to my parents on the subject, lest they
should wonder why the subject interested me.

Once, when I was with my mother--we were walking up and down the picture
gallery--I did venture to ask her:

"Mamma, what makes husbands bad? Why do they make their wives cry?"

How my beautiful mother looked at me. There were laughter, fun and pain
in her eyes altogether.

"What makes my darling ask such a question?" she replied. "I am very
surprised: it is such a strange question for my Laura to ask! I hope all
husbands are good."

"No, not all," I hastened to answer; "Lady Conyngham's was not--I heard
her say so."

"I am sorry you heard it--you must not repeat it; you are much too young