"That I am sure they will never do," said Mrs. Melville.
"In that case, Mrs. Herbert's power of being useful to them ceases, since Mr. Villars has decided that the eldest must on no account relinquish the advantages of her position here, as neither he nor Mrs. Herbert are in circumstances to ensure them future support independently of their own exertions."
"Mr. Villars is certainly a very eccentric man," said Mrs. Melville; "does he suppose that a few years could make any difference in Mary's claims upon the people of H., or their willingness to give her their support, if she were then compelled to teach."
"Mr. Villars is eccentric," said Mr. Melville; "yet for what seemed to us strange, he has always had some good reason to give, as I doubt not he has now."
"Well, here come the children," said Mrs. Melville; "we shall soon hear their decision, and I suspect you will find that Mr. Villars' limitation is a complete hinderance to Mrs. Herbert's kind intentions."
The door was thrown open as Mrs. Melville spoke, and the children, unconscious of a stranger's presence, came laughing and talking in. Even Ellen looked pleased, which I was especially glad to see, as her usual gloomy countenance would have impressed a stranger unfavorably. Mrs. Melville led Mary and Ellen to Mr. Wallace, and introduced him to them as a friend of their Aunt Herbert. To their inquiries respecting their aunt and her family Mr. Wallace replied very fully. The children having said that they had never seen her, he described her appearance, her manners, her character—spoke of their cousins George and Charles Herbert, whom he represented as spirited, manly, but kind and affectionate tempered boys.
"And my cousin Lucy?" said Mary.
"Was one of the loveliest and most engaging young persons I ever saw, when she was on earth," said Mr. Wallace; "she is now, I hope, an angel in heaven."
"Is my cousin Lucy dead?" said Ellen, who had hitherto been a silent listener.
"Yes, my child, she has now been dead for more than two months, after enduring for almost two years very great suffering. During all that time, though I saw her very often, I never heard a complaining word from her. All her grief was for her mother. Even when she was dying she thought of her, and the last words we could distinguish from her were, 'Our good heavenly Father will comfort you, mother.'"