"I think," said Constance, "he ought to go to school. Mr. Martyn thinks so also, I know. It is such a pity mother is so set against schools."
"There is a reason for it, and you must remember your mother's great grief."
"Poor Arthur's dying at school, you mean; but he was a very delicate boy, and Willy is as strong as a horse. I wish I were strong—half as strong! Here I lie, week after week, and my back does not get a bit better. I had the old pain this morning when I just moved to take my work from the little table;" and Constance's eyes filled with tears.
She was the eldest living child of Lady Burnside's eldest daughter, who had married a gentleman high in the Civil Service in India, and who had always lived there. As so often happens, the children could not bear the climate after a certain age, and they had been committed to their grandmother's care, who lived during the winter at San Remo, and of late years had not returned to England in the summer, but had spent the hot season in Switzerland.
The first detachment of children had been Arthur and Constance, both very delicate. Arthur had been sent to school near London, and had died there, to the great grief of his father and mother. He had caught a chill after a game of cricket, and died before any of his relations could reach him. Although no one was really to blame, poor Mrs. Montague found it hard to think so, and she lived in perfect dread of sending Willy to school, although he was a robust, vigorous boy.
The next detachment which came to be committed to Lady Burnside's care were little Ella and Baby Bob. Mrs. Montague had brought them to San Remo herself, now more than two years before this time, and with the help of Mrs. Crawley, the old and trusted nurse, who had lived with Lady Burnside for many years, their grandmother had been able to bear the burden of responsibility. Constance had lately complained of a pain in her back, and had been condemned to lie down on an invalid couch for the greater part of the day; but Willy and the baby were as healthy as could be desired, and Ella, although not strong, had seldom anything really amiss. She was a gentle, sensitive child, and apt to take a low view of herself and everybody else. But Lady Burnside did not encourage this, and while she held Willy in check, she was too wise to let Ella look upon herself as a martyr to her brother's teasing and boisterous mirth.
Presently Constance said,—
"Is Irene like Aunt Eva, I wonder?"
"Not if I may judge by her photograph," Lady Burnside said.
"Why did not Uncle Packingham let Irene live with you, grannie, as we do?"