MRS. FAIRFIELD.--"'Deed she was!"

LEONARD.--"How was that?"

MRS. FAIRFIELD (rocking herself to and fro in her chair).--"Oh, my Lady
was her godmother,--Lady Lansmere I mean,--and took a fancy to her when
she was that high, and had her to stay at the Park, and wait on her
Ladyship; and then she put her to school, and Nora was so clever that
nothing would do but she must go to London as a governess. But don't
talk of it, boy! don't talk of it!"

LEONARD.--"Why not, Mother? What has become of her; where is she?"

MRS. FAIRFIELD (bursting into a paroxysm of tears).--"In her grave,--in
her cold grave! Dead, dead!"

Leonard was inexpressibly grieved and shocked. It is the attribute of
the poet to seem always living, always a friend. Leonard felt as if some
one very dear had been suddenly torn from his heart. He tried to console
his mother; but her emotion was contagious, and he wept with her.

"And how long has she been dead?" he asked at last, in mournful accents.

"Many's the long year, many; but," added Mrs. Fairfield, rising, and
putting her tremulous hand on Leonard's shoulder, "you'll just never talk
to me about her; I can't bear it, it breaks my heart. I can bear better
to talk of Mark; come downstairs,--come."

"May I not keep these verses, Mother? Do let me."