"I never could have done such a thing as that—never," said she, half laughing and half crying, when she first heard the story. "To think of firing off a pistol—and at a man, too! Oh, tell it me again, dear."
So, as I have said, Sarah heard the story over and over again, much as I have told it, and about poor Styles; and then her own father came in for a full share of eulogy, of course. And here again Sarah's feelings almost overpowered her, as she cried out—
"I am prouder of my cousin than ever I was—dear Walter! And I am so glad—so glad—oh, so glad that he found such a dear precious wife as your mother was to him, darling Helen. And, oh, if you could but know how I do love you!"
And then came mutual embracings, and a little tear-shedding, before they could settle down quietly again.
I have briefly described what happened at one particular time. But the same feelings were stirred, and almost to the same excess, whenever the story was retold. And I think it requires a subtler psychologist than the present writer to analyse the state of Sarah's mind at those times.
Helen's talk was often of her mother, of course. And here her heart went with all she said when she described her home piety, her loving disposition, her gentle manners, and the general happiness she diffused around her. It might be on one of these occasions that the weeping child gave utterance to her faith and hope in the Gospel, and spoke of the comfort she derived from it.
And so the time passed away pleasantly, as I have said, during the absence of the master of Tincroft House and his friend Walter—the more so that the two ladies received letters, by every other day's post, from the absentees, giving tolerably good accounts of themselves. They were not alarmed, nor greatly concerned, therefore, when the proposed few days of absence were extended to considerably more than a month.
Of course, in all this time, Helen's bower did not monopolise all the attention of either herself or her hostess. The commonplaces of everyday life had to receive their share of attention, and, to the extreme delight of Sarah, she found an able coadjutor (or trix) in the young Helen. Wonderful was the maiden's skill in concocting rich soups and stews, though (to Jane's horror) she laughingly regretted that the best possible foundation for these dishes, namely, a kangaroo's tail, could not be obtained in England for love or money, she supposed.
And then the two loving companions took many a quiet walk into the country around Tincroft House, which was now putting on its early summer beauty. To Helen this was all new; for nothing can be much more distinctly different than the appearances of nature in the two hemispheres. And the enthusiastic delight of the young Australian in her first acquaintance with English country scenery was so contagious, that I question if Sarah had ever before understood or appreciated how much beauty can be discovered in a blade of grass, a wayside flower, or a budding twig of hazel.
On one of these pleasant excursions, in an outburst of confidence, Sarah broke the ice of reserve under which was concealed one of the few secrets which she had kept back from Helen. It cost her some confusion of face, perhaps, if not of mind, to make the confession, which, indeed, sprang out of an innocent question put by Helen.