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It must be a hard trial for you, my
lady.'
'It is a hard trial.'
'Ah! we all have our trials, rich and poor,' sighed the woman, who
desired nothing better than to be allowed to unbosom her woes to the
grand looking lady in the fur-bordered cloth pelisse, with beautiful
dark hair piled up in clustering masses above a broad white forehead,
and slender white hands on which diamonds flashed and glittered in the
firelight, an unaccustomed figure by that rustic hearth.
'We all have our trials--high and low.'
'That reminds me,' said Lady Maulevrier, looking up at her, 'your
husband said you were in trouble. What did that mean?'
'Sickness in the house, my lady. A brother of mine that went to America
to make his fortune, and seemed to be doing so well for the first five
or six years, and wrote home such beautiful letters, and then left off
writing all at once, and we made sure as he was dead, and never got a
word from him for ten years, and just three weeks ago he drops in upon
us as we was sitting over our tea between the lights, looking as white
as a ghost.


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