"It is in accordance with custom that the widow should have the Dower House. A widow's rights should be respected; but I thought our names would be mentioned," said Lady Belstone, dejectedly.
"Of course he knew," said Lady Mary, in a low voice, "that Peter's house would be always open to us all, as my boy said himself."
"Dear boy! he has said it to us too," said the sisters, in a breath.
"I don't say that, in my opinion," said Lady Mary, "it would not be wiser to leave a young married couple to themselves; I have always thought so. But Peter would not hear of your turning out of your old home; you know that very well."
"Peter would not; but nothing would induce me to live under the same roof as that red-haired minx," said Lady Belstone, firmly. "And besides, as you say, my dear Mary, you could not very well live by yourself at the Dower House."
"Since Mary has been so kind as to mention it, there would be many advantages in our accompanying her there, in case Sarah should succeed in her artful aims," said Miss Crewys. "It would be near Peter, and yet not too near, and we could keep an eye on her."
"If she does not succeed, somebody else will," said Lady Belstone, sensibly; "and, at least, we know her faults, and can put Peter on his guard against them."
A host of petty and wretched recollections poured into Lady Mary's mind as she listened to these words.
Poor Timothy; poor little hunted, scolded, despairing bride; poor married life—of futile reproaches and foolish quarrelling.
How many small miseries she owed to those ferret searching eyes, and those subtly poisonous tongues! But such miseries lurked in the dull shadows of the past. Standing now in the bright sunshine of the present, she forgave the sisters with all her heart, and thought compassionately of their great age, their increasing infirmities, their feeble hold on life.