marry his cousin. He had promised, and Lady Helena's strongest hope in
life had been to see that promise fulfilled. The news of his low
marriage fell upon her like a thunderbolt. She was the proudest of
dowagers--when had a Catheron made a _mesalliance_ before? No; she
could not forgive him--could never receive his wife.

But when he came to her, pale, sad, appealing for pardon, she relented.
It was a very tender and womanly heart, despite its pride of birth,
that beat in Lady Helena's bosom; and jolly Squire Powyss, who had
seen the little wife at the Royals, took sides with his nephew.

"It's done, and can't be undone, my dear," the squire said,
philosophically; "and it's always wise to make the best of a bad
bargain; and 'pon my life, my love, it's the sweetest little face the
sun ever shone on! Gad! I'd have done it myself. Forgive him, my
dear--boys will be boys--and go and see his wife."

Lady Helena yielded--love for her boy stronger than pride or anger.
She went; and there came into one of the dusk drawing-rooms of the
Royals, a little white vision, with fair, floating hair, and pathetic
blue eyes--a little creature, so like a child, that the tender,
motherly heart of the great lady went out to her at once.

"You pretty little thing!" she said, taking her in her arms and
kissing her as though she had been eight rather than eighteen. "You're
nothing but a baby yourself and you have got a baby they tell me. Take
me to see him, my dear."

They were friends from that hour. Ethel, with grateful tears in her
eyes, led her up to the dainty berceaunette where the heir of Catheron