“Indeed, Aunt, I would like it,” answered Lettice, “for very like I may never have such another chance while I live.”
“Truly, that’s little like,” retorted Temperance with a laugh. “So have thy ride, child, if thou wilt.—Dear heart! Lady Lettice, I ask your pardon.”
“For what, Temperance, my dear?”
“Taking your place, Madam, instead of my own. Here am I, deciding what Lettice shall do or not do, when you being in presence, it belongs to you to judge.”
Lady Louvaine gave her gentle smile.
“Nay, if we must stand upon our rights, you, Temperance, as her father’s sister, have the right to choose.”
“Then I choose to obey you, Lady Lettice,” said Temperance with a courtesy.
“Madam,” now announced Hans from the door, “the baggage is packed, and the caroche awaiteth your Ladyship.”
Edith helped her mother to rise from, her chair. She stood one moment, her hand on Edith’s arm; and a look came into her eyes such as a drowning man might give to the white cliffs whereon his home stood, where his wife and his little children were waiting for him. So she stood and looked slowly round the chamber, her eyes travelling from one thing to another, till she had gone all over it. And then she said, in a low, pathetic voice—
“‘Get thee out of thy country, and from thy father’s house, unto the land that I will show thee.’ Once before I had that call, and it led me to him who was the stay and blessing of my life. Yet again I go forth: O my Father, let it lead to Thee, unto Thy holy hill, and to Thy tabernacle! Remember Thy word unto Thy servant, wherein Thou hast caused me to hope—‘Certainly I will be with thee,’—‘I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee,’—‘Fear not, for I have redeemed thee: I have called thee by thy name; thou art Mine.’ Lord, keep Thine own!—Now, my children, let us go hence with God.”