Lady Ball came and was shown into the parlour, and her niece went down to receive her.

“I would have been here before you came, aunt, only the room is not mine.”

In answer to this, Lady Ball said that it did very well. Any room would answer the present purpose. Then she sat down on the sofa from which she had risen. She was dressed, of course, in the full weeds of her widowhood, and the wide extent of her black crape was almost awful in Margaret’s eyes. She did not look to be so savage as her niece had sometimes seen her, but there was about her a ponderous accumulation of crape, which made her even more formidable than she used to be. It would be almost impossible to refuse anything to a person so black, so grave, so heavy, and so big.

“I have come to you, my dear,” she said, “as soon as I possibly could after the sad event which we have had at home.”

In answer to this, Margaret said that she was much obliged, but she hoped that her aunt had put herself to no trouble. Then she said a word or two about her uncle,—a word or two that was very difficult, as of course it could mean nothing.

“Yes,” said the widow, “he has been taken from us after a long and useful life. I hope his son will always show himself to be worthy of such a father.”

After that there was silence in the room for a minute or two, during which Margaret waited for her aunt to begin; but Lady Ball sat there solid, grave, and black, as though she thought that her very presence, without any words, might be effective upon Margaret as a preliminary mode of attack. Margaret herself could find nothing to say to her aunt, and she, therefore, also remained silent. Lady Ball was so far successful in this, that when three minutes were over her niece had certainly been weakened by the oppressive nature of the meeting. She had about her less of vivacity, and perhaps also less of vitality, than when she first entered the room.

“Well, my dear,” said her aunt at last, “there are things, you know, which must be talked about, though they are ever so disagreeable;” and then she pulled out of her pocket that abominable number of the Littlebath Christian Examiner.

“Oh, aunt, I hope you are not going to talk about that.”

“My dear, that is cowardly; it is, indeed. How am I to help talking about it? I have come here, from Twickenham, on purpose to talk about it.”

“Then, aunt, I must decline; I must, indeed.”

“My dear!”

“I must, indeed, aunt.”

Let a man or a woman’s vitality be ever so thoroughly crushed and quenched by fatigue or oppression—or even by black crape—there will always be some mode of galvanising which will restore it for a time, some specific either of joy or torture which will produce a return of temporary energy. This Littlebath newspaper was a battery of sufficient power to put Margaret on her legs again, though she perhaps might not be long able to keep them.