Mr Snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. There could be no doubt of his content, or Mrs Snow’s either, Graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when Janet’s lot had been so different. She thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of patient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the first months in Merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. And yet, Janet was not changed. She was the very same. The qualities that had made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life had brought she was content. No one could doubt that. And Graeme asked herself, would it ever be so with her? Would she ever cease to regret the irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? She prayed that it might be so. She longed for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart was startled from its girlhood’s quiet. How long it seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! Would she ever be so again? It did not seem possible. She tried in vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, and interests. And yet, here was Janet, not of a light or changeful nature; how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! And yet she had grown content?
“What are you thinking about, Graeme?” said Will, who, as well as Mr Snow, had been watching her troubled face, Graeme started.
“Oh! of a great many things. I don’t know why it should have come to my mind just now, but I was thinking of a day in Merleville, long ago—an Indian-summer day. I remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, I suppose, about what the future might bring to us all. How lovely it was that day!”
“And then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a look as I passed out. I mind it, very well,” said Mr Snow.
“I was not friends with you that day. But how should you remember it? How should you know it was that day, of which I was thinking?”
“I saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all the changes that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you first heard of one of them. That is how I came to think of it.”
“And then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of the stairs. You werena well pleased with me, either, that day,” said Mrs Snow.
“Oh! I was afraid; and you spoke to me of aunt Marian, and of our own Menie, and how there might be sadder changes than even your going away. Ah, me! I don’t think I have been quite at peace with myself since that night.”
“Miss Graeme! my dear,” expostulated Mrs Snow.
“No, I have ay been afraid to find myself at peace. But I am glad of one thing, though I did not think that day it would ever make me glad. Uncle Sampson, did I ever tell you—I am afraid I never did—how glad I am now, that you were stronger than I was, and prevailed—in taking Janet from us, I mean?”