maternal sacrifice. She yawned perpetually; she read innumerable novels;
she corresponded with her friends. In the long dull evenings, the
once-lively lady sometimes openly regretted that she had not been born
a man--with the three masculine resources of smoking, drinking, and
swearing placed at her disposal. It was a dreary existence, and happier
influences seemed but little likely to change it. Grateful as she was
to her mother, no persuasion would induce Stella to leave Ten Acres
and amuse herself in London. Mrs. Eyrecourt said, with melancholy and
metaphorical truth, "There is no elasticity left in my child."

On a dim gray morning, mother and daughter sat by the fireside, with
another long day before them.

"Where is that contemptible husband of yours?" Mrs. Eyrecourt asked,
looking up from her book.

"Lewis is staying in town," Stella answered listlessly.

"In company with Judas Iscariot?"

Stella was too dull to immediately understand the allusion. "Do you mean
Father Benwell?" she inquired.

"Don't mention his name, my dear. I have re-christened him on purpose
to avoid it. Even his name humiliates me. How completely the fawning old
wretch took me in--with all my knowledge of the world, too! He was so
nice and sympathetic--such a comforting contrast, on that occasion,
to you and your husband--I declare I forgot every reason I had for
not trusting him. Ah, we women are poor creatures--we may own it among
ourselves. If a man only has nice manners and a pleasant voice, how