THAT evening, Lizzie's young husband, Donald Anderson, came to Ballintra to take her home. The Anderson were respectable people, and rich compared to the Egertons; yet Donald was very proud of his pretty wife's high birth; and Lizzie was made much of by his thrifty parents, who were very fond of her. So it was with real sorrow that Mrs. Anderson became aware, as time went by, that Lizzie Was fretting grievously, though she tried not to show it before her big, red-haired Donald.
"Lizzie, lass, what's the matter wi' ye?" asked the old Scotchwoman, when several weeks had gone by, and Lizzie was still very low. "Is it fretting for your poor mother ye are? Do ye no believe that she's at peace, Lizzie? And was her life such a bright one, that you'd want to keep her at it for ever? Fie, lassie! I thought better of ye."
"I can't help crying, mother," said Lizzie. "It is not for her—indeed, I would not bring her back, for her lot was a hard one, and she was a broken-hearted woman. But, oh! Mrs. Anderson, I do feel so wicked; to live here in plenty, with no more to do than what is pleasant to me, and all of you so good to me, while poor Helen is slaving there night and day, with no one to help her but old Katty, who is better able for farm work than for house work. And all of them living so poorly—barely enough to eat, and no hope of better times to cheer them. I sometimes can hardly bring myself to eat a good dinner, for thinking of them."
"Hoots, child! Things are not so bad as that with them. You're low and nervous, my dear, and think too much of it."
"Because I feel as if I ought to be there helping. I am the eldest, you know; it is too much for Helen alone, and Agnes is only seven, and Clarice has to be cared for as much as the baby."
"Poor child! I aye pity her the most, for you need only look at her to know she'd help if she could. Well now, Lizzie, I tell you I honour you for feeling like this. You're married to a man that has enough and to spare, and you ought to help. It never struck me before—to my shame I say it—but I see it plain enough now, and I'm the last woman in the world to counsel you to show a cold heart to your own folk. You'd be none the better wife for that. But let us lay our heads together and see if there's no way you could help them."
"Oh, Mrs. Anderson, there is a way; but I hardly like to speak of it."
"Speak your mind, dearie. If it's any way feasible, I'll help you to it; and if not, I'll tell you why, and it will go no further."
"You see, we have such nice comfortable rooms, and such plenty of everything, milk and eggs and fruit, and all that is good and nourishing. And I have plenty of time; it would be no trouble to me to care for her. If I might have poor Clarice here for a long visit! It would be such a relief to Helen, and so so good for Clarice; and it would make me so happy."
"Do you know, that's the very thing that was in my own mind? It's a most wise-like notion—far the best thing we could do for them. We could bring her over in the big spring cart very easily. Then there's that sofa the good-man would buy, and that I never could see the use of; and no doubt the poor child would be better here with you and me to see to her; and Helen will get on right well if Clarice is taken off her hands."