“Oh, indeed!”
“It is very kind,” said the perplexed Lady Temple.
“I beg your pardon, I only thought, in case you were wishing for some one, that Miss Williams will be at liberty shortly.”
“I do not imagine Miss Williams is the person to deal with little boys,” said Rachel. “In fact, I think that home teaching is always better than hired.”
“I am so much obliged,” said Fanny, as Mr. Touchett, after this defeat, rose up to take leave, and she held out her hand, smiled, thanked, and sent him away so much sweetened and gratified, that Rachel would have instantly begun dissecting him, but that a whole rush of boys broke in, and again engrossed their mother, and in the next lull, the uppermost necessity was of explaining about the servants who had been hired for the time, one of whom was a young woman whose health had given way over her lace pillow, and Rachel was eloquent over the crying evils of the system (everything was a system with Rachel) that chained girls to an unhealthy occupation in their early childhood, and made an overstocked market and underpaid workers—holding Fanny fast to listen by a sort of fascination in her overpowering earnestness, and great fixed eyes, which, when once their grasp was taken, would not release the victim; and this was a matter of daily occurrence on which Rachel felt keenly and spoke strongly.
“It is very sad. If you want to help the poor things, I will give anything I can.”
“Oh, yes, thank you, but it is doleful merely to help them to linger out the remnant of a life consumed upon these cobwebs of vanity. It is the fountainhead that must be reached—the root of the system!”
Fanny saw, or rather felt, a boy making signs at the window, but durst not withdraw her eyes from the fascination of those eager ones. “Lace and lacemakers are facts,” continued Rachel; “but if the middle men were exploded, and the excess of workers drafted off by some wholesome outlet, the price would rise, so that the remainder would be at leisure to fulfil the domestic offices of womanhood.”
There was a great uproar above.
“I beg your pardon, dear Rachel,” and away went Fanny.
“I do declare,” cried Rachel, when Grace, having despatched her home-cares, entered the room a quarter of an hour after; “poor Fanny’s a perfect slave. One can’t get in a word edgeways.”
Fanny at last returned, but with her baby; and there was no chance for even Rachel to assert herself while this small queen was in presence. Grace was devoted to infants, and there was a whole court of brothers vying with one another in picking up her constantly dropped toys, and in performing antics for her amusement. Rachel, desirous to be gracious and resigned, attempted conversation with one of the eldest pair, but the baby had but to look towards him, and he was at her feet.
On her departure, Rachel resumed the needful details of the arrangements respecting the house and servants, and found Lady Temple as grateful and submissive as ever, except that, when advised to take Myrtlewood for a term of seven years, she replied, that the Major had advised her not to bind herself down at once.
“Did you let him think we should quarrel?”
“Oh, no, my dear; but it might not agree with the children.”
“Avonmouth! Grace, do you hear what heresy Fanny has been learning? Why, the proportion of ozone in the air here has been calculated to be five times that of even Aveton!”
“Yes, dearest,” said poor Fanny, very humbly, and rather scared, “there is no place like Avonmouth, and I am sure the Major will think so when he has seen it.”
“But what has he to do with your movements?”
“Sir Stephen wished—” murmured Fanny.
“The Major is military secretary, and always settles our head-quarters, and no one interferes with him,” shouted Conrade.
Rachel, suspicious and jealous of her rival, was obliged to let Fanny pass on to the next item, where her eager acceptance of all that was prescribed to her was evidently meant as compensation for her refractoriness about the house.
Grace had meanwhile applied herself to keeping off the boys, and was making some progress in their good graces, and in distinguishing between their sallow faces, dark eyes, and crisp, black heads. Conrade was individualized, not only by superior height, but by soldierly bearing, bright pride glancing in his eyes, his quick gestures, bold, decided words, and imperious tone towards all, save his mother—and whatever he was doing, his keen, black eye was always turning in search of her, he was ever ready to spring to her side to wait on her, to maintain her cause in rough championship, or to claim her attention to himself. Francis was thick-set, round-shouldered, bullet-headed and dull-eyed, in comparison, not aggressive, but holding his own, and not very approachable; Leoline, thin, white-cheeked, large-eyed and fretful-lipped, was ready to whine at Conrade’s tyranny and Francis’s appropriations, but was grateful for Grace’s protection, and more easy of access than his elders; and Hubert was a handsome, placid child, the good boy, as well as the beauty of the family. The pair in the nursery hardly came on the stage, and the two elders would be quite sufficient for Mrs. Curtis, with whom the afternoon was to be spent.
The mother, evidently, considered it a very long absence, but she was anxious to see both her aunt and her own home, and set out, leaning on Rachel’s arm, and smiling pleased though sad recognition of the esplanade, the pebbly beach, bathing machines and fishing boats, and pointing them out to her sons, who, on their side, would only talk of the much greater extent of Melbourne.
Within the gates of the Homestead, there was a steep, sharp bit of road, cut out in the red sandstone rock, and after a few paces she paused to rest with a sigh that brought Conrade to her side, when she put her arm round his neck, and leant on his shoulder; but even her two supporters could not prevent her from looking pale and exhausted.
“Never mind,” she said, “this salt wind is delightful. How like old times it is!” and she stood gazing across the little steep lawn at the grey sea, the line of houses following the curve of the bay, and straggling up the valley in the rear, and the purple headlands projecting point beyond point, showing them to her boys, and telling their names.
“It is all ugly and cold,” said Francis, with an ungracious shiver. “I shall go home to Melbourne when I’m a man.”
“And you will come, mamma?” added Conrade.
He had no answer, for Fanny was in her aunt’s arms; and, like mother and daughter, they clung to each other—more able to sympathize, more truly one together, than the young widow could be with either of the girls.
As soon as Fanny had rested and enjoyed the home atmosphere downstairs, she begged to visit the dear old rooms, and carried Conrade through a course of recognitions through the scarcely altered apartments. Only one had been much changed, namely, the schoolroom, which had been stripped of the kindly old shabby furniture that Fanny tenderly recollected, and was decidedly bare; but a mahogany box stood on a stand on one side; there was a great accession of books, and writing implements occupied the plain deal table in the centre.
“What have you done to the dear old room—do you not use it still?” asked Fanny.
“Yes, I work here,” said Rachel.
Vainly did Lady Temple look for that which women call work.
“I have hitherto ground on at after-education and self-improvement,” said Rachel; “now I trust to make my preparation available for others. I will undertake any of your boys if you wish it.”
“Thank you; but what is that box?”—in obedience to a curious push and pull from Conrade.
“It is her dispensary,” said Grace.
“Yes,” said Rachel, “you are weak and nervous, and I have just the thing for you.”
“Is it homoeopathy?”
“Yes, here is my book. I have done great things in my district, and should do more but for prejudice. There, this globule is the very thing for your case; I made it out last night in my book. That is right, and I wanted to ask you some questions about little Wilfred.”
Fanny had obediently swallowed her own globule, but little Wilfred was a different matter, and she retreated from the large eyes and open book, saying that he was better, and that Mr. Frampton should look at him; but Rachel was not to be eluded, and was in full career of elucidation to the meanest capacity, when a sharp skirmish between the boys ended the conversation, and it appeared that Conrade had caught Francis just commencing an onslaught on the globules, taking them for English sweetmeats of a minute description.
The afternoon passed with the strange heaviness well known to those who find it hard to resume broken threads after long parting. There was much affection, but not full certainty what to talk about, and the presence of the boys would have hindered confidence, even had they not incessantly occupied their mother. Conrade, indeed, betook himself to a book, but Francis was only kept out of mischief by his constantly turning over pictures with him; however, at dark, Coombe came to convey them home, and the ladies of the Homestead experienced a sense of relief. Rachel immediately began to talk of an excellent preparatory school.
“I was thinking of asking you,” said Fanny, “if there is any one here who would come as a daily governess.”
“Oh!” cried Rachel, “these two would be much better at school, and I would form the little ones, who are still manageable.”
“Conrade is not eight years old yet,” said his mother in an imploring tone, “and the Major said I need not part with him till he has grown a little more used to English ways.”
“He can read, I see,” said Grace, “and he told me he had done some Latin with the Major.”
“Yes, he has picked up a vast deal of information, and on the voyage the Major used to teach him out of a little pocket Virgil. The Major said it would not be of much use at school, as there was no dictionary; but that the discipline and occupation would be useful, and so they were. Conrade, will do anything for the Major, and indeed so will they all.”
Three Majors in one speech, thought Rachel; and by way of counteraction she enunciated, “I could undertake the next pair of boys easily, but these two are evidently wanting school discipline.”
Lady Temple feathered up like a mother dove over her nest.
“You do not know Conrade. He is so trustworthy and affectionate, dear boy, and they are both always good with me. The Major said it often hurts boys to send them too young.”
“They are very young, poor little fellows,” said Mrs. Curtis.
“And if they are forward in some things they are backward in others,” said Fanny. “What Major Keith recommended was a governess, who would know what is generally expected of little boys.”
“I don’t like half measures,” muttered Rachel. “I do not approve of encouraging young women to crowd the overstocked profession of governesses.”
Fanny opened her brown eyes, and awaited the words of wisdom.
“Is it not a flagrant abuse,” continued Rachel, “that whether she have a vocation or not, every woman of a certain rank, who wishes to gain her own livelihood, must needs become a governess? A nursery maid must have a vocation, but an educated or half-educated woman has no choice; and educator she must become, to her own detriment, and that of her victims.”
“I always did think governesses often much to be pitied,” said Fanny, finding something was expected of her.
“What’s the use of pity if one runs on in the old groove? We must prevent the market from being drugged, by diverting the supply into new lines.”
“Are there any new lines?” asked Fanny, surprised at the progress of society in her absence.
“Homoeopathic doctresses,” whispered Grace; who, dutiful as she was, sometimes indulged in a little fun, which Rachel would affably receive unless she took it in earnest, as in the present instance.
“Why not—I ask why not? Some women have broken through prejudice, and why should not others? Do you not agree with me, Fanny, that female medical men—I mean medical women—would be an infinite boon?”
“It would be very nice if they would never be nervous.”
“Nerves are merely a matter of training. Think of the numbers that might be removed from the responsibility of incompetently educating! I declare that to tempt a person into the office of governess, instead of opening a new field to her, is the most short-sighted indolence.”
“I don’t want to tempt any one,” said Fanny. “She ought to have been out before and be experienced, only she most be kind to the poor boys. I wanted the Major to inquire in London, but he said perhaps I might hear of some one here.”
“That was right, my dear,” returned her aunt. “A gentleman, an officer, could not do much in such a matter.”
“He always does manage whatever one wants.”
At which speech Rachel cast a glance towards her mother, and saw her look questioning and perplexed.
“I was thinking,” said Grace, “that I believe the people at the Cliff Cottages are going away, and that Miss Williams might be at liberty.”
“Didn’t I know that Grace would come out with Miss Williams?” exclaimed Rachel. “A regular eruption of the Touchettomania. We have had him already advertising her.”
“Miss Williams!” said Mrs. Curtis. “Yes, she might suit you very well. I believe they are very respectable young women, poor things! I have always wished that we could do more for them.”
“Who?” asked Fanny.
“Certain pets of Mr. Touchett’s,” said Rachel; “some of the numerous ladies whose mission is that curatolatry into which Grace would lapse but for my strenuous efforts.”
“I don’t quite know why you call them his pets,” said Grace, “except that he knew their antecedents, and told us about them.”
“Exactly, that was enough, for me. I perfectly understand the meaning of Mr. Touchett’s recommendations, and if what Fanny wants is a commonplace sort of upper nursemaid, I dare say it would do.” And Rachel leant back, applied herself to her wood carving, and virtually retired from the discussion.
“One sister is a great invalid,” said Grace, “quite a cripple, and the other goes out as a daily governess. They are a clergyman’s daughters, and once were very well off, but they lost everything through some speculation of their brother. I believe he fled the country under some terrible suspicion of dishonesty; and though no one thought they had anything to do with it, their friends dropped them because they would not give him up, nor believe him guilty, and a little girl of his lives with them.”
“Poor things!” exclaimed Lady Temple. “I should very much like to employ this one. How very sad.”
“Mrs. Grey told me that her children had never done so well with any one,” said Mrs. Curtis. “She wanted to engage Miss Williams permanently, but could not induce her to leave her sister, or even to remove her to London, on account of her health.”
“Do you know her, Grace?” asked Fanny.
“I have called once or twice, and have been very much pleased with the sick sister; but Rachel does not fancy that set, you see. I meet the other at the Sunday school, I like her looks and manner very much, and she is always at the early service before her work.”
“Just like a little mauve book!” muttered Rachel.
Fanny absolutely stared. “You go, don’t you, Rachel? How we used to wish for it!”
“You have wished and we have tried,” said Rachel, with a sigh.
“Yes, Rachel,” said Grace; “but with all drawbacks, all disappointments in ourselves, it is a great blessing. We would not be without it.”
“I could not be satisfied in relinquishing it voluntarily,” said Rachel, “but I am necessarily one of the idle. Were I one of the occupied, laborare est orare would satisfy me, and that poor governess ought to feel the same. Think of the physical reaction of body on mind, and tell me if you could have the barbarity of depriving that poor jaded thing of an hour’s sleep, giving her an additional walk, fasting, in all weathers, and preparing her to be savage with the children.”
“Perhaps it refreshes her, and hinders her from being cross.”
“Maybe she thinks so; but if she have either sense or ear, nothing would so predispose her to be cross as the squeaking of Mr. Touchett’s penny-whistle choir.”
“Poor Mr. Touchett,” sighed Mrs. Curtis; “I wish he would not make such ambitious attempts.”
“But you like the choral service,” said Fanny, feeling as if everything had turned round. “When all the men of a regiment chant together you cannot think how grand it is, almost finer than the cathedral.”
“Yes, where you can do it,” said Rachel, “but not where you can’t.”
“I wish you would not talk about it,” said Grace.
“I must, or Fanny will not understand the state of parties at Avonmouth.”
“Parties! Oh, I hope not.”
“My dear child, party spirit is another word for vitality. So you thought the church we sighed for had made the place all we sighed to see it, and ourselves too. Oh! Fanny is this what you have been across the world for?”
“What is wrong?” asked Fanny, alarmed.
“Do you remember our axiom? Build your church, and the rest will take care of itself. You remember our scraping and begging, and how that good Mr. Davison helped us out and brought the endowment up to the needful point for consecration, on condition the incumbency was given to him. He held it just a year, and was rich, and could help out his bad health with a curate. But first he went to Madeira, and then he died, and there we are, a perpetual curacy of £70 a year, no resident gentry but ourselves, a fluctuating population mostly sick, our poor demoralized by them, and either crazed by dissent, or heathenized by their former distance from church. Who would take us? No more Mr. Davisons! There was no more novelty, and too much smartness to invite self-devotion. So we were driven from pillar to post till we settled down into this Mr. Touchett, as good a being as ever lived, working as hard as any two, and sparing neither himself nor any one else.”
Fanny looked up prepared to admire.
“But he has two misfortunes. He was not born a gentleman, and his mind does not measure an inch across.”
“Rachel, my dear, it is not fair to prejudice Fanny; I am sure the poor man is very well-behaved.”
“Mother! would you be calling the ideal Anglican priest, poor man?”
“I thought he was quite gentlemanlike,” added Fanny.
“Gentlemanlike! ay, that’s it,” said Rachel, “just so like as to delight the born curatolatress, like Grace and Miss Williams.”
“Would it hurt the children?” asked Fanny, hardly comprehending the tremendous term.
“Yes, if it infected you,” said Rachel, intending some playfullness. “A mother of contracted mind forfeits the allegiance of her sons.”
“Oh, Rachel, I know I am weak and silly,” said the gentle young widow, terrified, “but the Major said if I only tried to do my duty by them I should be helped.”
“And I will help you, Fanny,” said Rachel. “All that is requisite is good sense and firmness, and a thorough sense of responsibility.”
“That is what is so dreadful. The responsibility of all those dear fatherless boys, and if—if I should do wrong by them.”
Poor Fanny fell into an uncontrollable fit of weeping at the sense of her own desolation and helplessness, and Mrs. Curtis came to comfort her, and tell her affectionately of having gone through the like feelings, and of the repeated but most comfortable words of promise to the fatherless and the widow—words that had constantly come before the sufferer, but which had by no means lost their virtue by repetition, and Fanny was soothed with hearing instances of the special Providence over orphaned sons, and their love and deference for their mother. Rachel, shocked and distressed at the effect of her sense, retired out of the conversation, till at the announcement of the carriage for Lady Temple, her gentle cousin cheered up, and feeling herself to blame for having grieved one who only meant aid and kindness, came to her and fondly kissed her forehead, saying, “I am not vexed, dear Rachel, I know you are right. I am not clever enough to bring them up properly, but if I try hard, and pray for them, it may be made up to them. And you will help me, Rachel dear,” she added, as her readiest woe-offering for her tears, and it was the most effectual, for Rachel was perfectly contented as long as Fanny was dependent on her, and allowed her to assume her mission, provided only that the counter influence could be averted, and this Major, this universal referee, be eradicated from her foolish clinging habits of reliance before her spirits were enough recovered to lay her heart open to danger.
But the more Rachel saw of her cousin, the more she realized this peril. When she went down on Monday morning to complete the matters of business that had been slurred over on the Saturday, she found that Fanny had not the slightest notion what her own income was to be. All she knew was that her General had left everything unreservedly to herself, except £100 and one of his swords to Major Keith, who was executor to the will, and had gone to London to “see about it,” by which word poor Fanny expressed all the business that her maintenance depended on. If an old general wished to put a major in temptation, could he have found a better means of doing so? Rachel even thought that Fanny’s incapacity to understand business had made her mistake the terms of the bequest, and that Sir Stephen must have secured his property to his children; but Fanny was absolutely certain that this was not the case, for she said the Major had made her at once sign a will dividing the property among them, and appointing himself and her Aunt Curtis their guardians. “I did not like putting such a charge on my dear aunt,” said Fanny, “but the Major said I ought to appoint a relation, and I had no one else! And I knew you would all be good to them, if they had lost me too, when baby was born.”
“We would have tried,” said Rachel, a little humbly, “but oh! I am glad you are here, Fanny!”
Nothing could of course be fixed till the Major had “seen about it.” After which he was to come to let Lady Temple know the result; but she believed he would first go to Scotland to see his brother. He and his brother were the only survivors of a large family, and he had been on foreign service for twelve years, so that it would be very selfish to wish him not to take full time at home. “Selfish,” thought Rachel; “if he will only stay away long enough, you shall learn, my dear, how well you can do without him!”
The boys had interrupted the conversation less than the previous one, because the lesser ones were asleep, or walking out, and the elder ones having learnt that a new week was to be begun steadily with lessons, thought it advisable to bring themselves as little into notice as possible; but fate was sure to pursue them sooner or later, for Rachel had come down resolved on testing their acquirements, and deciding on the method to be pursued with them; and though their mamma, with a curtain instinctive shrinking both for them and for herself, had put off the ordeal to the utmost by listening to all the counsel about her affairs, it was not to be averted.
“Now, Fanny, since it seems that more cannot be done at present, let us see about the children’s education. Where are their books?”
“We have very few books,” said Fanny, hesitating; “we had not much choice where we were.”
“You should have written to me for a selection.”
“Why—so we would, but there was always a talk of sending Conrade and Francis home. I am afraid you will think them very backward, dear Rachel, especially Francie; but it is not their fault, dear children, and they are not used to strangers,” added Fanny, nervously.
“I do not mean to be a stranger,” said Rachel.
And while Fanny, in confusion, made loving protestations about not meaning that, Rachel stepped out upon the lawn, and in her clear voice called “Conrade, Francis!” No answer. She called “Conrade” again, and louder, then turned round with “where can they be—not gone down on the beach?”
“Oh, dear no, I trust not,” said the mother, flurried, and coming to the window with a call that seemed to Rachel’s ears like the roar of a sucking dove.
But from behind the bushes forth came the two young gentlemen, their black garments considerably streaked with the green marks of laurel climbing.
“Oh, my dears, what figures you are! Go to Coombe and get yourselves brushed, and wash your hands, and then come down, and bring your lesson books.”
Rachel prognosticated that these preparations would be made the occasion, of much waste of time; but she was answered, and with rather surprised eyes, that they had never been allowed to come into the drawing-room without looking like little gentlemen.
“But you are not living in state here,” said Rachel; “I never could enter into the cult some people, mamma especially, pay to their drawing-room.”
“The Major used to be very particular about their not coming to sit down untidy,” said Fanny. “He said it was not good for anybody.”
Martinet! thought Rachel, nearly ready to advocate the boys making no toilette at any time; and the present was made to consume so much time that, urged by her, Fanny once more was obliged to summon her boys and their books.
It was not an extensive school library—a Latin grammar an extremely dilapidated spelling-book, and the fourth volume of Mrs. Marcet’s “Little Willie.” The other three—one was unaccounted for, but Cyril had torn up the second, and Francis had thrown the first overboard in a passion. Rachel looked in dismay. “I don’t know what can be done with these!” she said.
“Oh, then we’ll have holidays till we have got books, mamma,” said Conrade, putting his hands on the sofa, and imitating a kicking horse.
“It is very necessary to see what kind of books you ought to have,” returned Rachel. “How far have you gone in this?”
“I say, mamma,” reiterated Conrade, “we can’t do lessons without books.”
“Attend to what your Aunt Rachel says, my dear; she wants to find out what books you should have.”
“Yes, let me examine you.”
Conrade came most inconveniently close to her; she pushed her chair back; he came after her. His mother uttered a remonstrating, “My dear!”
“I thought she wanted to examine me,” quoth Conrade. “When Dr. M’Vicar examines a thing, he puts it under a microscope.”
It was said gravely, and whether it were malice or simplicity, Rachel was perfectly unable to divine, but she thought anyway that Fanny had no business to laugh, and explaining the species of examination that she intended, she went to work. In her younger days she had worked much at schools, and was really an able and spirited teacher, liking the occupation; and laying hold of the first book in her way, she requested Conrade to read. He obeyed, but in such a detestable gabble that she looked up appealingly to Fanny, who suggested, “My dear, you can read better than that.” He read four lines, not badly, but then broke off, “Mamma, are not we to have ponies? Coombe heard of a pony this morning; it is to be seen at the ‘Jolly Mariner,’ and he will take us to look at it.”
“The ‘Jolly Mariner!’ It is a dreadful place, Fanny, you never will let them go there?”
“My dear, the Major will see about your ponies when he comes.”
“We will send the coachman down to inquire,” added Rachel.
“He is only a civilian, and the Major always chooses our horses,” said Conrade.
“And I am to have one too, mamma,” added Francis. “You know I have been out four times with the staff, and the Major said I could ride as well as Con!”
“Reading is what is wanted now, my dear, go on.”
Five lines more; but Francis and his mother were whispering together, and of course Conrade stopped to listen. Rachel saw there was no hope but in getting him alone, and at his mother’s reluctant desire, he followed her to the dining-room; but there he turned dogged and indifferent, made a sort of feint of doing what he was told, but whether she tried him in arithmetic, Latin, or dictation, he made such ludicrous blunders as to leave her in perplexity whether they arose from ignorance or impertinence. His spelling was phonetic to the highest degree, and though he owned to having done sums, he would not, or did not answer the simplest question in mental arithmetic. “Five apples and eight apples, come, Conrade, what will they make?”
“A pie.”
That was the hopeful way in which the examination proceeded, and when Rachel attempted to say that his mother would be much displeased, he proceeded to tumble head over heels all round the room, as if he knew better; which performance broke up the seance, with a resolve on her part that when she had the books she would not be so beaten. She tried Francis, but he really did know next to nothing, and whenever he came to a word above five letters long stopped short, and when told to spell it, said, “Mamma never made him spell;” also muttering something depreciating about civilians.
Rachel was a woman of perseverance. She went to the bookseller’s, and obtained a fair amount of books, which she ordered to be sent to Lady Temple’s. But when she came down the next morning, the parcel was nowhere to be found. There was a grand interrogation, and at last it turned out to have been safely deposited in an empty dog-kennel in the back yard. It was very hard on Rachel that Fanny giggled like a school-girl, and even though ashamed of herself and her sons, could not find voice to scold them respectably. No wonder, after such encouragement, that Rachel found her mission no sinecure, and felt at the end of her morning’s work much as if she had been driving pigs to market, though the repetition was imposing on the boys a sort of sense of fate and obedience, and there was less active resistance, though learning it was not, only letting teaching be thrown at them. All the rest of the day, except those two hours, they ran wild about the house, garden, and beach—the latter place under the inspection of Coombe, whom, since the “Jolly Mariner” proposal, Rachel did not in the least trust; all the less when she heard that Major Keith, whose soldier-servant he had originally been, thought very highly of him. A call at Myrtlewood was formidable from the bear-garden sounds, and delicate as Lady Temple was considered to be, unable to walk or bear fatigue, she never appeared to be incommoded by the uproar in which she lived, and had even been seen careering about the nursery, or running about the garden, in a way that Grace and Rachel thought would tire a strong woman. As to a tete-a-tete with her, it was never secured by anything short of Rachel’s strong will, for the children were always with her, and she went to bed, or at any rate to her own room, when they did, and she was so perfectly able to play and laugh with them that her cousins scarcely thought her sufficiently depressed, and comparing her with what their own mother had been after ten months’ widowhood, agreed that after all “she had been very young, and Sir Stephen very old, and perhaps too much must not be expected of her.”