"Mothers must—you know. And I think never did boys outgrow their things like our boys. It is pleasant, too. If only clothes did not wear out so fast."
"Ah!" A sigh—from the very depths of the father's heart.
"Not a bit too fast for my clever fingers, though," said Ursula, quickly. "Look, John, at this lovely braiding. But I'm not going to do any more of it. I shall certainly have no time to waste over fineries at Longfield."
Her husband took up the fanciful work, admired it, and laid it down again. After a pause he said:
"Should you be very much disappointed if—if we do not go to Longfield after all?"
"Not go to Longfield!" The involuntary exclamation showed how deep her longing had been.
"Because I am afraid—it is hard, I know—but I am afraid we cannot manage it. Are you very sorry?"
"Yes," she said frankly and truthfully. "Not so much for myself, but—the children."
"Ay, the poor children."
Ursula stitched away rapidly for some moments, till the grieved look faded out of her face; then she turned it, all cheerful once more, to her husband. "Now, John, tell me. Never mind about the children. Tell me."