“Did not fifty years seem a long time to you then?” asked Mysie.
“Well, my dear, I don’t think I looked forward to any special time, or to any end at all in those days. And I don’t now, Mysie—I don’t now, in another sense, for fifty years is a very little bit of eternity.”
The old lady spoke rather to herself than to the girl; but the words chimed in with Mysie’s previous thoughts.
“I think,” she said, dreamily, “you are the happiest. If Mr Harcourt were to die you would have such a little while to wait; but if Arthur— It’s almost all life, if it is but a little bit of eternity.”
“Die, my dear? What has put such sad thoughts into your head this bright morning?”
“I don’t know. But I shall remember this morning as long as I live.” Then, shaking off her sadness, she started up, and, kissing the old lady, went off rather hastily on her errands.
The everyday occupation soon chased away the solemn thoughts that had oppressed her, and having disposed of her other business she went down to the canal, along the bank, and across the gates of the lock—the unrailed condition of which was one of those grievances which are always talked of and never remedied—to the lock-keeper’s cottage, where she gave her message about the health-drinking; and sent two little girls, who were at home from school, off in a great hurry to join their companions. These children were motherless, and Mysie took great interest in the pretty sister Alice, who had charge of them.
The youngest boy was ill, and Mr Dickenson, the Oxley doctor—who was most favoured at Redhurst—was paying him a visit. Mysie heard his opinion, and promised sundry delicacies to assist the child’s recovery.
“Then you will send the children down to the Rectory, Alice?” she said.
“Yes, Miss Mysie. I can’t come with them, because of Freddy.”