“Not now,” said a third voice, softly, and Lettice looked up at another aunt whose presence she had not previously noticed. This was certainly no sister of the two plain women whose acquaintance we have just made. Temperance Murthwaite had outlived her small share of good looks, and Faith’s had long since been washed away in tears; but Edith Louvaine had been extremely beautiful, and yet was so notwithstanding her forty years. Her hair was dark brown, with a golden gleam when the sun caught it, and her eyes a deep blue, almost violet. Her voice was sweet and quiet—of that type of quietness which hides behind it a reserve of power and feeling. “At eighteen, Lettice, we are not commonly sorry to leave home. Much sorrier at thirty-eight: and at eighty, I think, there is little to leave but graves.”
“Ay, but they’re not all dug by the sexton,” remarked Temperance, patting the blue kirtle to make it lie in the hole she had left for it. “At any rate, the sorest epitaphs are oft invisible save to them that have eyes to see them.”
Edith did not answer, and the work went on. At length, suddenly, the question was asked—
“Whence came you, Edith?”
“From Mere Lea, whither I have been with Mother and Aubrey, to say farewell.”
“And for why came you hither? Not to say farewell, I reckon.”
“Nay,” replied Edith, smiling. “I thought I might somewhat help you, Temperance. We must all try to spare poor Faith.”
“Spare poor Faith!” repeated Temperance, in a sarcastic tone. “Tell you what, Edith Louvaine,—if you’d think a bit less of sparing her, and she’d think a bit more of sparing you, it would be a sight better for poor Faith and poor Edith too.”
“I? I don’t want to be spared,” answered Edith.
“No, you don’t, and that’s just it. And Faith does. And she oughtn’t. And you oughtn’t.”