"It is quite useless, you know, Isabel, to struggle against the
inevitable."

"It is very well for you, Beatrice, to talk in that fashion, you who
have never had a trouble in your own life; now, have you?"

"No," replied my beautiful mother, "not a real trouble, thank Heaven,"
and she clasped her white hands in gratitude.

"Then you cannot judge. You mean well, I know, when you advise me to be
patient; but, Beatrice, suppose it were your husband, what should you
do?"

"I should do just what I am advising you to do; I should be patient,
Isabel."

"You would. If Sir Roland neglected you, slighted you, treated you with
indifference, harder to bear than hate, if he persisted in thrusting the
presence of your rivals on you, what should you do?"

"Do you mean to ask me, really and truly, what I should do in that
case?" asked my dear mother. "Oh, Isabel, I can soon tell you that; I
should die."

"Die--nonsense!" cried Lady Conyngham. "What is the use of dying?--the
very thing they want. I will not die;" but my mother had laid her fair
head back on the velvet pillow, and her eyes lingered on the clear blue
sky. Was she looking for the angels who must have heard her voice?

"I am not as strong as you, Isabel," she said, gently, "and I love Sir