to fetch a book from that same unlucky apartment. She would never enter that gallery again. She would never speak to Lord Beaufort as long as she lived; or perhaps she had better annoy him by talking to and at him constantly, though she was not quite sure whether she would not leave St. Mary's at once. But she would tell Helen to explain to him all the Stuart history, and then crush him by the most lofty contempt—not that she cared what he said or thought, in fact she rather enjoyed his malice; and then she burst into a violent fit of crying, and found she had dropped her handkerchief. There is nothing like a good handsome flood of tears when these atrocious attacks on our good name or good looks are detected. The whirl of resentful thoughts, the angry resolves, the crimson cheeks, the burning eyes, the swelling heart, and the twitching fingers—all these moral and physical symptoms of injured innocence are instantly alleviated by a hearty cry. Mary felt better directly, and then she began to look at her mortification rationally, and not passionately. She still thought Lord Beaufort very unjust, because she had really behaved so uncommonly well; she had taken such pains to do what was right in that business; but she began to see how her conduct might have been so represented as to take a selfish colouring; and then the recollection of Lord Beaufort's hatred of her as a saint made her smile as she thought of the fit of temper to which she had just given way. "Oh! that I were one," she said, "in the genuine sense of the word!" and, in pursuing that train of thought, the momentary mortification she had suffered sank to its proper dimensions. Better feelings resumed their sway, and though she ended by thinking it a great pity that Helen should have such a detestable brother, and should live in a house that contained such an absurd room as a library with a gallery, yet she thought there was no necessity for leaving St. Mary's; that Lord Beaufort might have some
