“Ah,” sighed the widow, in a very tender tone, “there can be no two of him!” Then after a little pause, “And what sayest thou to Lettice—my little Lettice?”
The concealed listener pricked up both her ears.
Aunt Joyce gave a little laugh. “Not so very unlike an other Lettice that once I knew,” said she. “Something less like to fall in the same trap, methinks, and rather more like to fall in an other.”
“Now, tell me what other?”
“I mean, dear heart, less conceit of her favour (beauty), and more of her wisdom. A little over-curious and ready to meddle in matters that concern her not. A good temper, methinks, and more patience than either of her aunts on the father’s side: as to humility—well, we have none of us too much of that.”
“Joyce, wouldst thou like to have us leave Lettice a while with thee? She could wait on thee and read to thee, and be like a daughter to thee. I will, if thou wouldst wish it.”
“Nay, that would I not, Lettice, for the child’s own sake. It were far better for her to go with you. There is an offer thou couldst make me, of that fashion, that my self-denial were not equal to refuse. So see thou make it not.”
“What, now? Not Hans, trow?”
“Edith.”
“O Joyce!”