"Say anything you please, only don't teach her to forget."
"What do you mean?"
The man's eyes blazed. Lilias colored all over her face.
"I mean nothing," she said hurriedly. "Come into the flower-garden. We shall have a great show of roses this year. Come and look at the buds. You were going to say something to me," she added presently.
"Yes. I was going to prepare you for what may come by-and-bye. It is possible that in the future—remember. I don't know anything—but it is possible that in the future your young sister-in-law may once more be happy. I don't know how—I am not going to prognosticate anything, but I think as a rule one may safely infer that the very bitterest grief, the most poignant sorrows which come before twenty are not abiding. Mrs. Wyndham has her child. It would not do for the child to associate only sorrow with the mother's face. Some time in the future she will be happy again. It is my opinion that your brother would be glad of this."
"Hush; you don't know. My brother—my only brother! I at least can never be the Lilias of old."
"I believe you," said Carr much moved by her tone. "You, too, are very young; but in your heart, Miss Wyndham, in your heart, you were an older woman, a woman more acquainted with the grave side of life, than that poor young thing was when the blow fell."
Lilias did not answer for a moment or two.
"I am glad Marjory is out of it all," she said then. "You know what a long nervous illness she had at the time. Dear old Marjory, she was such a tempestuous darling."