There was a great exchange of tidings; Genevieve had much to tell of her dear Rainsforths, the many vicissitudes of anxiety in which she had shared, and of the children’s ways of taking the parting; and of the dear little Fanny who seemed to have carried away so large a piece of her susceptible heart, that Sophy could not help breaking out, ‘Well, I do think it is very hard to make yourself a bit of a mother’s heart, only to have it torn out again.’
Albinia smiled, and said, ‘After all, Sophy, happiness in this world is in such loving, only we don’t find it out till the rent has been made.’
‘And some people can get fond of anything,’ said Sophy.
‘I’m sure,’ said Genevieve, ‘every one is so kind to me I can’t help it.’
‘I was not blaming you,’ said Sophy. ‘People are the better for it, but I cannot like except where I esteem, and that does not often come.’
‘Oh! don’t you think so?’ cried Genevieve.
‘I don’t mean moderate approval. That may extend far, and with it good-will, but there is a deep, concentrated feeling which I don’t believe those who like every one can ever have, and that is life.’
Perhaps the deepening twilight favoured the utterance of her feelings, for, as they were descending a hill, she said, ‘Mamma, that was the place where Maurice was brought back to me.’
She had before passed it in silence, but in the dark she was not afraid of betraying the expression that the thrill of exquisite recollection brought to her countenance; and leaning back in her corner indulged in listening to the narration, as Albinia, unaware of the special point of the episode, related Maurice’s desperate enterprise, going on to dilate on the benefit of having Mr. O’More at the bank rather than Andrew Goldsmith.
‘Ah!’ said Genevieve, ‘it is he who wants to pull down our dear old house. I shall quarrel with him.’