"For my cousin went away, after treating me as I deserved, and we learned to forget one another, and then I got married to that other whom I had made game of, and who was too good for such a silly thing as I was, and he is my dear John Tincroft now, and I love him so much; he is so good, and I never knew how much he deserved to be loved, till it came to me by degrees; and I do love him, my dear."
"And then, you know, dear, when my cousin went abroad, and got over his unhappiness because of the way I had used him, he found out, I haven't any doubt, that he had had a happy escape from such a bad bargain as I should have been to him; and he got a better wife than ever I should have made him; and I don't wonder he never cared to say anything about what had gone before. All I wonder is that he could ever bear the thought or sight of me. But it must be all because of his goodness and John's."
"And I am so glad it has come round so, and we can look upon one another as cousins again; and with you, darling, to make us all so happy! And when Walter—my cousin Walter and your father—gets better, and finds a home for himself—which I am sure he needn't think of so long as there's Tincroft House—but whatever is to come next, I hope we shall never be parted, dear. And now I think we had better be going homewards, for we mustn't forget we have got to have our dinner, you know."
To say that Helen listened to this rather tangled string of confessions with extreme wonderment is very mildly stating confusion into which she was thrown. Perhaps this confusion was betrayed by her looks; for, as they walked slowly towards the house, her companion remarked,—
"You don't understand such things now, my darling, but you will come to know more about them some day. And would you mind my giving you a little good advice now?"
Helen would be very glad of it, and would thankfully receive it, she said, looking trustfully into the matron's face.
"It isn't much that I shall say, dear," said Sarah, "so you needn't be afraid of my preachment. It is only this, Helen if you ever fancy that any person—of course I mean a gentleman, and a young one—loves you, or wants you to love him, or if you believe you do love him, in a certain sort of way, you know, so as that you think he wants you to be his wife, or you seem to feel you would like him to be your husband, don't make fun of him, dear; and don't think it clever to tease him and plague him out of his life almost. For this isn't the way to get love, or to keep it, and nobody knows what harm may be done without intending it. Love-making and marrying are serious things, dear, though young people don't always think so."
Helen promised, of course, that she would bear her friend's advice in mind whenever there should be occasion. But she none the less continued to wonder at all she had heard.
If it had been twice as strange and curious as it was, however, it would for the time have been driven out of her mind by a letter which awaited her on the dressing-table in her pretty bower, and which Austin, the postman, had delivered during her absence. It was from her father, announcing that on a certain day near at hand, he and Mr. Tincroft would be reaching home, and adding the cheering intelligence that he felt stronger and better than when he said good-bye to her so many weeks ago.
