"And to be spoilt too, don't forget that," cried Evelyn, laughingly
shaking back her ringlets. "And now, before you go, will you tell me, as
you are so wise, what I can do to make--to make--my mother love me?"

Evelyn's voice faltered as she spoke the last words, and Aubrey looked
surprised and moved.

"Your mother love you, my dear Evelyn! What do you mean,--does she not
love you?"

"Ah, not as I love her. She is kind and gentle, I know, for she is so to
all; but she does not confide in me, she does not trust me; she has some
sorrow at heart which I am never allowed to learn and soothe. Why does
she avoid all mention of her early days? She never talks to me as if
she, too, had once a mother! Why am I never to speak of her first
marriage, of my father? Why does she look reproachfully at me, and shun
me--yes, shun me, for days together--if--if I attempt to draw her to the
past? Is there a secret? If so, am I not old enough to know it?"

Evelyn spoke quickly and nervously, and with quivering lips. Aubrey took
her hand, and pressing it, said, after a little pause,--

"Evelyn, this is the first time you have ever thus spoken to me. Has
anything chanced to arouse your--shall I call it curiosity, or shall I
call it the mortified pride of affection?"

"And you, too, aye harsh; you blame me! No, it is true that I have not
thus spoken to you before; but I have long, long thought with grief that
I was insufficient to my mother's happiness,--I who love her so dearly.