"Mamma, Mamma!" cried the bewildered girl; and the child in her arms

set up a frantic chorus of shouts. "A murderess, indeed! Go down on

your knees and pray to God to cleanse your wicked ungrateful heart,

Amelia, and may He forgive you as I do." And Mrs. Sedley tossed out of

the room, hissing out the word poison once more, and so ending her

charitable benediction.

Till the termination of her natural life, this breach between Mrs.

Sedley and her daughter was never thoroughly mended. The quarrel gave

the elder lady numberless advantages which she did not fail to turn to

account with female ingenuity and perseverance. For instance, she

scarcely spoke to Amelia for many weeks afterwards. She warned the

domestics not to touch the child, as Mrs. Osborne might be offended.

She asked her daughter to see and satisfy herself that there was no

poison prepared in the little daily messes that were concocted for

Georgy. When neighbours asked after the boy's health, she referred them

pointedly to Mrs. Osborne. SHE never ventured to ask whether the baby

was well or not. SHE would not touch the child although he was her

grandson, and own precious darling, for she was not USED to children,

and might kill it. And whenever Mr. Pestler came upon his healing

inquisition, she received the doctor with such a sarcastic and scornful

demeanour, as made the surgeon declare that not Lady Thistlewood

herself, whom he had the honour of attending professionally, could give

herself greater airs than old Mrs. Sedley, from whom he never took a

fee. And very likely Emmy was jealous too, upon her own part, as what

mother is not, of those who would manage her children for her, or

become candidates for the first place in their affections. It is

certain that when anybody nursed the child, she was uneasy, and that

she would no more allow Mrs. Clapp or the domestic to dress or tend him

than she would have let them wash her husband's miniature which hung up

over her little bed--the same little bed from which the poor girl had

gone to his; and to which she retired now for many long, silent,

tearful, but happy years.

In this room was all Amelia's heart and treasure. Here it was that she

tended her boy and watched him through the many ills of childhood, with

a constant passion of love. The elder George returned in him somehow,

only improved, and as if come back from heaven. In a hundred little

tones, looks, and movements, the child was so like his father that the

widow's heart thrilled as she held him to it; and he would often ask

the cause of her tears. It was because of his likeness to his father,

she did not scruple to tell him. She talked constantly to him about

this dead father, and spoke of her love for George to the innocent and

wondering child; much more than she ever had done to George himself, or

to any confidante of her youth. To her parents she never talked about

this matter, shrinking from baring her heart to them. Little George

very likely could understand no better than they, but into his ears she

poured her sentimental secrets unreservedly, and into his only. The

very joy of this woman was a sort of grief, or so tender, at least,

that its expression was tears. Her sensibilities were so weak and

tremulous that perhaps they ought not to be talked about in a book. I

was told by Dr. Pestler (now a most flourishing lady's physician, with

a sumptuous dark green carriage, a prospect of speedy knighthood, and a

house in Manchester Square) that her grief at weaning the child was a

sight that would have unmanned a Herod. He was very soft-hearted many

years ago, and his wife was mortally jealous of Mrs. Amelia, then and

long afterwards.




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