“Kiss me, dear. I know you won't deceive me now you have pledged your honor. This solemn promise consoles me more than you can conceive.”
“I am so glad; but if you knew how little it costs me.”
“All the better; you will be more likely to keep it,” was the dry reply.
The conversation then took a more tender turn. “And so to-morrow you go! How dull the house will be without you! and who is to keep my brats in order now I have no idea. Well, there is nothing but meeting and parting in this world; it does not do to love people, does it? (ah!) Don't cry, love, or I shall give way; my desolate heart already brims over—no—now don't cry” (a little sharply); “the servants will be coming in to take away the things.”
“Will you c—c—come and h—help me pack, dear?”
“Me, love? oh no! I could not bear the sight of your things put out to go away. I promised to call on Mrs. Hunt this afternoon; and you must not stop in all day yourself—I cannot let your health be sacrificed; you had better take a brisk walk, and pack afterward.”
“Thank you, aunt. I will go and finish my drawing of Harrowden Church to take with me.”
“No, don't go there; the meadows are wet. Walk upon the Hatton road; it is all gravel.”
“Yes; only it is so ugly, and I have nothing to do that way.”
“But I'll give you something to do,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, obligingly. “You know where old Sarah and her daughter live—the last cottages on that road; I don't like the shape of the last two collars they made me; you can take them back, if you like, and lend them one of yours I admire so for a pattern.”