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Violet was quite relieved to find this excessive grief was not spent on her aunt, but that it was the long-restrained sorrow for an affliction in which she could so much better sympathize. It had been of no avail for Mrs. Nesbit, in mistaken kindness, and ignorance of a mother’s heart, to prevent her from ever adverting to her darlings; it had only debarred her from the true source of comfort, and left the wound to ache unhealed, while her docile outward placidity was deemed oblivion. The fear of such sorrow had often been near Violet, and she was never able to forget on how frail a tenure she held her firstborn; and from the bottom of her heart came her soothing sympathy, as she led her on to dwell on the thought of those innocents, in their rest and safety. Lady Martindale listened as if it was a new message of peace; her tears were softer, and she dwelt fondly on little Anna’s pretty ways, speaking, and Violet hearing, as if it had been a loss of to-day, instead of more than thirty long years ago.

Lady Martindale opened a dressing-box, saying how relieved she had been to find it safe, and from a secret drawer drew out a paper and showed Violet some soft locks of chestnut hair. ‘Their papa gave me these,’ she said. ‘My dear aunt would not let me look at them—she thought it hurt me; but I must see if Anna’s hair is not just like Helen’s.’ And then she begged Violet not to be alarmed at the resemblance, and kissed her for saying she was glad of it, and had no fears on that score. She dwelt on these reminiscences as if they were a solace of which she could never taste enough, and did not cease talking over them till Lord Martindale entered. Violet understood his feeling and the reserve hitherto shown to him sufficiently to attempt breaking it down, and ventured, as she quitted the room, to lay her hand on the little curl, and say, ‘Grandmamma thinks Helen like her little Anna.’

Seeing Arthur leaning on the balusters, looking discomposed, she went down to him. ‘Where have you been!’ he said, rather sulkily.

‘With your mother; I hope she is growing more calm.’

‘Very absurd of her to take it so much to heart!’ said Arthur, entering the drawing-room. ‘Have you heard about this will?’

‘No. What?’

‘Never was such a will on this earth! It ought to be brought into court! I verily believe the old hag studied to make it a parting emanation of malice!’

‘Oh, hush! hush!’ cried Violet, shocked.

‘It is all very well saying Hush, hush; but I should like to know what you mean to live upon?’

‘What has she done?’

‘She has gone and left it all to that child!’

‘What child?’

‘My son—your boy John, I tell you; but, mark you, so as to do no good to a living soul. Not a penny is he to touch till we are all dead, if we starve meantime. She has tied it up to accumulate till my eldest son—or John’s, if he has one—comes to the title, and much good may it do him!’

‘Poor little dear!’ said Violet, inexpressibly pained by his tone.

‘Anything but poor! It is £100,000 to begin with, and what will it be when he gets it? Think of that doing nothing, and of us with no dependence but the trumpery £5000 by the marriage settlements. It is enough to drive one crazy.’

‘It is a pity,’ said Violet, frightened by his vehemence.

‘It is an end of all chance for me. When she had always taught me to look to it! It is absolute cheating.’

‘Of late she never led us to expect anything.’

‘No; and you never took pains to stand well with her. Some people—’

‘O, Arthur, Arthur!’

‘Well, don’t be foolish! You could not help it. Her spitefulness was past reckoning. To see her malice! She knew John and Theodora would not let me be wronged, so she passes them over, and my mother too, for fear it should be made up to me. Was ever man served so before? My own son, as if to make it more aggravating!’

At an unlucky moment Johnnie ran in, and pulled his mother’s dress. ‘Mamma, may Helen dig in the bed by the garden door!’

‘Go away!’ said Arthur, impatiently. ‘We can’t have you bothering here.’

Though inattentive and indifferent to his children, he had never been positively unkind, and the anger of his tone filled the timid child’s eyes with tears, as he looked appealingly at his mother, and moved away, lingering, and beginning a trembling, ‘but, mamma—’

‘Don’t stay here!’ cried Arthur, in an indiscriminating fit of anger, striking his hand on the table. ‘Did I not order you to go this moment, sir?’

Poor Johnnie fled, without hearing his mother’s consoling ‘I’ll come;’ which only, with her look of grief, further irritated Arthur. ‘Ay, ay! That’s always the way. Nothing but the boy, whenever I want you.’

Violet saw defence would make it worse, and tried to give him the attention he required; though quivering with suppressed distress for his harshness to his poor little boy, whom she could hardly help going at once to comfort. She hardly heard his storming on about the unhappy will, it only seemed to her like the apple of discord, and great was the relief when it was ended by Lord Martindale’s coming down, asking why Johnnie was crying. She hoped this might cause Arthur some compunction, but he only answered, gruffly, ‘He was troublesome, he is always fretting.’

Violet found the poor little fellow with tear-glazed face trying to suppress the still heaving sobs, and be grateful to his grandmamma, who had brought him into her room, and was trying to console him, though unable to discover the secret of his woe. As he sprung to his mother’s lap, his grief broke forth afresh. His affection for his father was a deep, distant, almost adoring worship; and the misery inflicted by those looks and words was beyond what could be guessed, save by his mother. He thought himself naughty, without knowing why, and could hardly be soothed by her caresses and assurances that papa was not really angry, but he must not interrupt another time.

‘But, mamma, Helen wanted to dig up all Cousin Hugh’s little green things.’

Violet was thus reminded that she must seek after her daughter, whom she found revelling in mischief, and was obliged to sentence to dire disgrace, causing general commiseration, excepting that her papa, ignorant that it was his own fault, declared children to be the greatest plagues in the world.

She saw him no more in private, but grieved at his moodiness all the evening, and at bed-time watched a red spark moving to and fro in the garden. Her heavy sigh made Theodora ask what was the matter.

‘I wish Arthur would not stay out in the dew. He has a little cough already,’ said she, putting forward the care that would best bear mention.

‘You used to be above caring for dews and night airs.’

‘I must for him and Johnnie!’ said Violet.

‘Ah! what do you say to your son’s prospects?’

‘I don’t suppose it will make much difference to him,’ was the dejected answer, Violet’s eyes still following the red end of the cigar in the darkness.

‘Well! that is contempt for wealth! Fancy what will be in his hands. I thought you would be moralizing on the way to bring him up to use it.’

‘I have not thought of that,’ said Violet; ‘besides, it will be long enough before he has it.’

‘What! will it not be when he is of age!’

‘No, when he comes to the title.’

‘Oh! I see. Mamma did not understand that! She thought it absolutely left to him. How is it, then?’

‘It is put in trust till either he, or John’s son, if he should have one, comes to the title.’

‘Then, it does you no good?’

‘Only harm,’ Violet could not help saying.

‘How harm? It might be worse for you to have it.’

‘Most likely,’ said Violet’s submissive voice. ‘But it vexes Arthur so much!’ and the tears fell unseen.

‘Well it may!’ said Theodora. ‘One cannot say what one thinks of it NOW, but—Poor Arthur! I was very much afraid she was going to leave it to me. Now I wish she had.’

‘I wish so too.’

‘It was silly of me to warn her that Arthur should have his share; but after all, I don’t regret it. I would not have had it on false pretences. Did you hear when the will was dated?’

‘September, 18—.’

‘When Johnnie was a baby. Ah! I remember. Well, I am glad we all forfeited it. I think it is more respectable. I only wish mamma had come in for it, because she is the right person, and papa is a good deal straitened. That really was a shame! Why did not she let them have it?’

‘Arthur thinks it was for fear we should be helped.’

‘No doubt,’ said Theodora. ‘Well. I wish—! It is a horrid thing to find people worse after they are dead than one thought them. There! I have had it out. I could not have borne to keep silence. Now, let us put the disgusting money matter out of our heads for good and all. I did not think you would have been distressed at such a thing, Violet.’

‘I don’t want it,’ said Violet, amid her tears. ‘It is Arthur’s disappointment, and the knowing I brought it on him.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Theodora. ‘If I had Arthur here, I would scold him well; and as to you, he may thank you for everything good belonging to him. Ten million fortunes would not be worth the tip of your little finger to him, and you know he thinks so. Without you, and with this money, he would be undone. Now, don’t be silly! You have got your spirits tired out, and sleep will make you a sensible woman.’

Violet was always the better for an affectionate scolding, and went to bed, trusting that Arthur’s disappointment might wear off with the night. But his aunt’s inheritance had been too much the hope of his life, for him to be without a strong sense of injury, and his embarrassments made the loss a most serious matter. He applied to his father for an increase of allowance, but he could not have chosen a worse time; Lord Martindale had just advanced money for the purchase of his company, and could so ill afford to supply him as before, that but for the sake of his family, he would have withdrawn part of his actual income. So, all he obtained was a lecture on extravagance and neglect of his wife and children; and thus rendered still more sullen, he became impatient to escape from these grave looks and reproofs, and to return to town before the disclosure of Mr. Gardner’s courtship. He made it his pretext that Violet was unwell and overworked in the general service; and she was, in truth, looking very ill and harassed; but he was far more the cause than were her exertions, and it was a great mortification to be removed from his parents and sister when, for the first time, she found herself useful to them, and for such an ungracious reason too, just when they were so much drawn together by the dangers they had shared, and the children seemed to be making progress in their grandmother’s affections. Poor Johnnie, too! it was hard to rob him of another month of country air, just as he was gaining a little strength and colour.

But pleading was useless; the mention of Johnnie revived the grievance, and she was told she must not expect everything to give way to that boy of hers; every one was ready enough to spoil him without his help. He would not stay crammed into this small house, with the children eternally in the way, and his father as black as thunder, with no diversion, and obliged to sleep out in that den of a cottage, in a damp, half-furnished room—an allegation hardly true, considering Violet’s care to see the room aired and fitted up to suit his tastes; but he was determined, and she had not even the consolation of supposing care for her the true reason; the only ground she could find for reconciling herself to the measure was, that night walks were not mending his cough, which, though so slight that he did not acknowledge it, and no one else perceived it, still made her uneasy. Especially Violet felt the ingratitude of leaving Theodora in her weak, half-recovered state; but it was almost as if he had a sort of satisfaction in returning his father’s admonitions on the care of his wife, by making it a plea for depriving them of her in their need, and he fixed his day without remorse.

CHAPTER 5

 
     E’en in sleep, pangs felt before,
     Treasur’d long in memory’s store,
     Bring in visions back their pain,
     Melt into the heart again.
     By it crost affections taught
     Chastened will and sobered thought.
 

     —AESCHYLUS.—Anstice

Arthur did not succeed in eluding Lady Elizabeth. She called the day after the funeral, begging especially to see Mrs. Martindale. She looked absent and abstracted, while Lord Martindale was talking to her, and soon entreated Violet to come with her for a short drive.

No sooner were they in the carriage than she said, ‘Violet, my dear, can you or Arthur tell me anything of this Mr. Gardner?’

‘I know very little of him personally,’ said Violet, for he was too much an associate of her husband’s for her to be willing to expose him; ‘but are you sure we mean the same person?’

‘Quite sure. Did you not hear that Arthur met him at Gothlands?’

‘No; I have had very little talk with him since he came back, and this fire has put everything out of our minds.’

‘Of course it must, my dear. However, Arthur came with Mr. Herries to dine there, and met Mr. Gardner as an old friend; so he must be the same, and I am particularly anxious for some account of him. I must tell you why—I know I am safe with you—but you will be very much surprised, after all her declarations—’

‘O, Lady Elizabeth, it cannot be that.’

‘I have always been prepared for something of the sort. But what, my dear?’ seeing her agitation, and quickly infected by it.

‘O, don’t let her,’ was all Violet could utter.

‘Tell me! what is he?—what do you know of him? They spoke of him as once having been extravagant—’

Violet drew a long breath, and tried to speak with composure. ‘He is a dreadful man, gambling, betting, dissipated—such a person that Arthur never lets him come near me or the children. How could he dare think of her?’

‘Can it be the same?’ said Lady Elizabeth, infinitely shocked, but catching at the hope. ‘This man is Lady Fotheringham’s nephew.’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Violet sadly. ‘There is no other cousin named Mark. Why, don’t you remember all the talk about Mrs. Finch?’

So little had Lady Elizabeth heeded scandal, that she had hardly known these stories, and had not identified them with the name of Gardner. Still she strove to think the best. ‘Arthur will be able to tell me,’ she said; ‘but every one seems fully satisfied of his reformation—the curate of the parish and all. I do not mean that I could bear to think of her being attached to a person who had been to blame. Her own account of him alarmed me enough, poor dear child, but when I hear of the clergyman, and Theresa Marstone, and all admiring his deep feeling of repentance—’

‘How can he be so wicked!’ exclaimed Violet.

‘You are convinced that he is not sincere?’

‘Why, of course, one does not like to say anything uncharitable; but there is something shocking in the notion of his talking of being good. If he did repent he would know how horrible it would be for him to marry Emma—’

‘He does affect great humility. He declares that no one can be more conscious of his unfitness than himself; but he was betrayed into this confession of his sentiments—Emma’s purity and devotedness, as Theresa writes to me, having been such powerful instruments in leading him to a better course. If it was not for poor Emma’s fortune, one might trust this more! Oh! Violet, I never so much was inclined to wish that her brother had been spared!’

‘But surely—surely Emma cannot like him?’

‘I grieve to say that she and her friend have been in one of their fits of enthusiasm. He seemed to accord with their idea of a penitent—only longing for stricter rules than are to be found with us. From what I have heard, I should have been much less surprised if he had become a monk of La Trappe; in fact, I was almost afraid of it.’

‘And does not this undeceive them?’

‘No; poor Emma’s only doubt is because she cannot bear to be unstable, and to desert the work to which she was almost pledged; but she says she is ashamed to perceive how much the sacrifice would cost her. She adds, that decide as she may, he concurs with her in devoting everything to the restoration of the Priory.’

‘Poor Emma! He has debts enough to swallow two-thirds! And Miss Marstone, what does she say?’

‘His becoming a suitor seems to have been a surprise and disappointment to her; but if she thinks him a pupil of her own, or expects to govern the Priory in poor Emma’s stead, she will be in his favour. No; I have no hope from Theresa Marstone’s discretion.’

‘The rest of the family?’

‘Theresa despises the others too much to attend to them. Mr. Randall seems to be startled at the present aspect of affairs, and asks me to come; and I should have set off this morning, but that I thought I might learn something from you and Arthur.’

‘Every one would tell you the same. He was expelled from the University, and has gone on shockingly ever since, breaking his mother’s heart! Poor Emma! after dreading every gentleman!’

‘I fear she has much to suffer. He made her think him not a marrying man, and put her off her guard. Did you say he was agreeable?’

‘Perhaps I might think so if I knew nothing about him; but I have always had a repugnance to him, and it is all I can do not to dislike him more than is right. If I saw him speak to Johnnie, I think I should!’

‘And now tell me, for I ought to have every proof, if you know anything that would convince Emma that this present repentance is assumed?’

Violet coloured excessively. ‘Arthur could tell’ she said, half choked, and as Lady Elizabeth still waited, she was obliged to add, He was active in the same way at the last races. I know there are things going on still that a man who really meant to reform would have broken off. Arthur could give you proofs.’

Violet could not bear to be more explicit. Her own secret feeling was that Mr. Gardner was her husband’s evil genius, leading him astray, and robbing her of his affection, and she was not far mistaken. Sneers, as if he was under her government, were often employed to persuade him to neglect her, and continue his ruinous courses; and if she shrunk from Gardner, he in return held her in malicious aversion, both as a counter influence and as a witness against him. It was the constant enmity of light to darkness, of evil to innocence.

The whole drive was spent in conversing on this engrossing theme; Lady Elizabeth lamenting the intimacy with Sarah Theresa, a clever, and certainly in many respects an excellent person, but with a strong taste for singularity and for dominion, who had cultivated Emma’s naturally ardent and clinging nature into an exclusive worship of her; and, by fostering all that was imaginative in her friends composition, had led her to so exalted an estimate of their own ideal that they alike disdained all that did not coincide with it, and spurned all mere common sense. Emma’s bashfulness had been petted and promoted as unworldly, till now, like the holes in the philosopher’s cloak, it was self-satisfaction instead of humility. This made the snare peculiarly dangerous, and her mother was so doubtful how far she would be guided, as to take no comfort from Violet’s assurances that Mr. Gardner’s character could be proved to be such that no woman in her senses could think, a second time, of accepting him.

‘I cannot tell,’ said poor Lady Elizabeth; ‘they will think all wiped out by his reform. Emma speaks already of aiding him to redeem the past. Ah! my dear,’ in answer to a look, ‘you have not seen my poor child of late: you do not know how much more opinionative she has become, or rather, Theresa has made her. I wish she could have been more with you.’

‘I never was enough of a companion to her, said Violet. ‘In my best days I was not up to her, and now, between cares and children, I grow more dull every day.’

‘Your best days! my dear child. Why, how old are you?’

‘Almost twenty-two,’ said Violet; ‘but I have been married nearly six years. I am come into the heat and glare of middle life. Not that I mean to complain,’ said she, rousing her voice to cheerfulness; ‘but household matters do not make people companions for those who have their youthfulness, and their readings, and schemes.’

‘I wish Emma could have been drawn to take interest in your sound practical life.’

‘If she would make a friend of Theodora!’

‘Yes, but the old childish fear of her is not gone; and Emma used to think her rather wild and flighty, and so indeed did I; but how she is changed! I have been much pleased with conversations with her of late. Do you think it is owing to Mr. Hugh Martindale’s influence?’

‘In great part it is. What a blessing it is to them all to have him here.’

‘Ah! it has been one of the things that made me most dread Theresa, that she will not like that good man.’

‘What can she say against him?’

‘I don’t exactly understand them. They called him a thorough Anglican, and said he did not feel the universal pulse! Now, I know it has been unfortunate for Emma that our own vicar does not enter into these ways of thinking; but I thought, when Mr. Hugh Martindale came into the neighbourhood, that there would be some one to appeal to; but I believe Theresa will trust to no one but of her own choosing.’

They had come back to the parsonage-gate, and Lady Elizabeth set Violet down, promising to write as soon as she arrived at Gothlands; Arthur was sauntering in the garden, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight, came to meet her.

‘O, Arthur, Lady Elizabeth wanted to speak to you. Cannot you catch her?’

‘I? No. Nonsense.’

‘She wanted to ask you about Mr. Gardner. Was it he whom you met at Gothlands?’

‘Well, what of that?’

‘Poor Lady Elizabeth! Is it not shocking that he has been making an offer to Emma?’

‘He has, has he? Well, and what is she going to do?’

‘There can be but one answer,’ said Violet. ‘Lady Elizabeth came to hear about him.’

‘A fine chance for gossip for you.’

‘I was forced to tell her,’ said she, trying to hide the pain given her by his contemptuous tone. ‘I would not have spoken if I could have helped it.’

‘Ay!’ said Arthur, ‘as he says, set on a lady to talk of her husband’s friends.’

‘But, oh! Arthur, what could I do? Think of poor Emma.’

‘Emma is a fool.’

‘Only you must not be angry with me. I would have said nothing without cause, but when it comes to this,—and he is pretending to be reformed.’

‘Well, so he might be if you would let him.’

‘But, Arthur!’ then eagerly seizing a new hope, ‘you don’t mean that he is really improving? Oh! has he given up those horses, and released you?

He turned petulantly away. ‘How can he? You have taken away any chance of it now. You have done for him, and it is of no use to go on any more about it.’

He marched off to his own abode, while she was obliged to sit down under the verandah to compose herself before Theodora should see her.

Theodora perceived that much was amiss; but was spared much anxiety by not being with the family, and able to watch her brother. The cottage was completely furnished from the wreck of Martindale; but the removal thither was deferred by her slow recovery. Though not seriously ill, she had been longer laid up than had been anticipated in a person so healthy and strong; the burns would not heal satisfactorily, and she was weak and languid. It seemed as if the unsparing fatigues she had been in the habit of undergoing; her immoderate country walks—her over late and over early hours, had told on her frame, and rendered the effects of her illness difficult to shake off. Or, thought Violet, those tidings might be the secret cause, although she never referred to them, and continued not merely patient, but full of vigour of mind, cheerful, and as independent and enterprising as submission to orders permitted. Her obedience to irksome rules was so ready and implicit, that Violet marvelled, till she perceived that it was part of her system of combat with self-will; and she took the departure of her sister in the same manner, forbearing to harass Violet with lamentations; and when her mother deplored it, made answer, ‘It is my fault. If I had not persuaded Arthur out of living at Brogden, we should be staying with them.’

As to the chance of permanent disfigurement, she treated it very coolly, listening with indifference to her mother’s frequent inquiries of the surgeon. ‘Never mind, mamma, you and Violet will keep up the beauty of the family till Helen comes out.’

The first time she was able to come down-stairs was the last evening before they were to depart. One of Arthur’s sparks of kindly feeling awoke when he beheld his once handsome, high-spirited sister, altered and wrapped up, entering the room with an invalid step and air; and though she tried to look about in a bright ‘degage’ manner, soon sinking into the cushioned chair by the window with a sigh of languor. The change was greater than he had anticipated from his brief visits to her in her bed-room; and, recollecting the cause of the injuries, he perceived the ingratitude of depriving her of Violet; but his contrition came too late, for he had already exchanged his leave of absence with another officer.

All that was in his power was to wait upon her with that engaging attention that rendered him so good a nurse. He was his pleasantest self, and she was so lively as to put every one else into good spirits. It was pretty to see the universal pleasure in her recovery—the weeding woman, going home late, and looking up at the window to see if she was there, as Miss Helen had promised, and curtseying, hardly able to speak for joy and grief together, when Theodora beckoned her to the window, and asked after her children. The dumb page, too, had watched an hour for her crossing the hall and when Arthur would have taken the tea from him, to hand to her, he gave such a beseeching glance as was quite irresistible, and the more affecting as Theodora’s hands were not yet in condition to converse with him, and she was forced to constitute Johnnie her interpreter.

It was long since any of them had spent so happy an evening; and at night Arthur insisted on helping her up-stairs, and said, ‘I declare it is a shame not to leave you Violet. Suppose you keep her till you are all right again?’

‘O, thank you, Arthur; but—’ for Violet looked doubtful.

‘Why, I thought you wanted to stay, Violet?’ said Arthur.

‘If you could.’

‘Too late for that; but you must settle it between you before to-morrow morning. Good night.’

Lady Martindale warmly pressed Violet to stay, and she found it much worse to have personally to make the choice than to be only a piece of property at Arthur’s disposal. She was, however, firm, saying that he would be uncomfortable without her; and she was grateful to Theodora for perceiving her motives, and preventing further entreaties.

‘You are right,’ said Theodora, when her mother was gone. ‘It would not be fit to leave him with an empty house, so I must yield you up; but I cannot bear to think of you in London.’

‘I am used to it,’ said Violet, with her patient smile.

‘And it will not be four years before we meet again. I shall try hard to come to you in the autumn.’

‘How comfortable that would be! But you must not be uneasy about me, nor put any one out of the way. I can get on very well, as long as I have Johnnie.’

It was not till both had laid down to rest, and the room was dark, that Theodora said, ‘I understand it now. Her poor sister must have brought her into some bad foreign society, from which he could only rescue her by marrying her.’

So abrupt was this commencement that Violet had to recollect who was meant, and so decided was the tone, that she asked, ‘What have you heard?’

‘Nothing fresh; have you?’

‘No. Arthur had heard nothing from Mr. Mark Gardner; and I am afraid we shall hear no more till John answers my letter.’

‘No matter; I have found out how it must have been. Lady Fotheringham, of whom he made a sort of mother, always liked Jane. Depend upon it, she was anxious about the way in which poor Georgina was reported to be going on abroad, and told Percy, when she died, to try if he could do anything to save Jane. You see he goes to Italy, and there finds, of course, that there is no way of fulfilling his aunt’s wishes but by sacrificing himself.’

‘You have arranged it all most fully!’

‘See if I am not right—or, rather, you will not see; but I know that was the way. It is his nature to be fantastically generous, as some people would call it; and as long as he is the same Percival Fotheringham, the rest is as nothing. I was unjust at the first moment. Jane has a better nature, which he can develop. There is a sense of religion to work on—a power of adaptation to those she is with, and if what she has seen in Italy has shocked her and made her turn to him, he may be the making of her. She is clever enough; and when she finds that nothing but truth and honesty will succeed with him, she will learn them at last.’

‘How glad I am you take it in this way.’

‘This quiet time has been good for me,’ said Theodora. ‘It would have been maddening to have had no pause before waking to ordinary life.’

‘Then the fire came at the right time for you.’

‘Have you not read of men rushing into battle, hoping each shot would strike them?’

‘O, Theodora!’

‘It did not last long. Don’t be frightened. Woman fear, and the stifling smell, and burning feel, and the sight of the red-hot gulf, were enough to drive it off. I shall never forget the touch of the floor in Charles’s room! I thought of nothing but the fire. The feeling only came back with the fainting. I remember a confused notion that I was glad to be dying with you holding my head and papa so kind. How savage I felt when every one would rouse me, and tell me I was better! I was in hopes the world was all over with me; but I see I have a great deal to do first, and the comfort of lying torpid here has been very great. I have had time to be stunned, and to get a grasp of it and of my own mind.’

‘Dear Theodora! It is indeed sometimes a blessing to be laid up. It brings out so much kindness. It is the easiest of all the crosses.’