"Frankly, dear mother, are you as happy with this new husband of yours—so wise and far-seeing, and determined to have his own way in everything—as you were with my dear, indulgent, easy-tempered father?"
Pamela Winstanley burst into a passion of tears.
"How can you be so cruel?" she exclaimed. "Who can give back the past, or the freshness and brightness of one's youth? Of course I was happier with your dear father than I can ever be again. It is not in nature that it should be otherwise. How could you be so heartless as to ask me such a question?"
She dried her tears slowly, and was not easily comforted. It seemed as if that speech of Violet's had touched a spring that opened a fountain of grief.
"This means that mamma is not happy with her second husband, in spite of her praises of him," thought Vixen.
She remained kneeling by her mother's side comforting her as best she could, until Mrs. Winstanley had recovered from the wound her daughter's heedless words had inflicted, and then Violet began to say good-bye.
"You will write to me sometimes, won't you, mamma, and tell me how the dear old place is going on, and about the old people who die—dear familiar white heads that I shall never see again—and the young people who get married, and the babies that are born? You will write often, won't you, mamma?"
"Yes, dear, as often as my strength will allow."
"You might even get Pauline to write to me sometimes, to tell me how you are and what you are doing; that would be better than nothing."
"Pauline shall write when I am not equal to holding a pen," sighed Mrs. Winstanley.