“Yes,” said Cicely, “when people have children I cannot understand their ever being dull. I remember mamma telling me what a comfort my sister Amiel was to her long ago, when she was lonely and unhappy. She must have been very unhappy during her first husband’s life. Did you ever see her then, Aunt Caroline?”
Madame Casalis shook her head. “No,” she said, “I knew her as a girl, but not again till she was married to your father. Her first husband was not good; she was wrong to marry him, but it was not all her fault.”
“Her father would not let her marry papa, because he was then poor, before his brother died,” said Cicely.
“Yes—and your father was proud—he went away and Helen knew not why, and in her sorrow they persuaded her to marry Mr. Bruce. And she was very unhappy. But afterwards, when in the end she met again Colonel Methvyn and they were married, she was very happy.”
“Yes,” said Cicely, “they were very happy. She never forgot how papa had thought of her always and never dreamt of marrying any one else even when he became rich. It is not often one hears of such love as that. Yes, they were very happy.”
“Yet she had great trouble first,” said Madame Casalis gently. “I should like you too to be happy like her some day, Cicely.”
Cicely shook her head. “I don’t think it is likely,” she replied. “I almost feel as if I were too old for anything of that kind again, do you know, aunt? Troubles make one feel old.”
“My Madame Gentille does not look old, and I am sure she has troubles,” observed Miss Eudoxie, who entered the room as Cicely was uttering her last sentence; “she has nice fat rosy cheeks, and her hair is not grey.”
“Whom is the child chattering about?” said Madame Casalis inquiringly.
“An English lady whom she has taken a fancy to,” said Cicely. “We saw her to-day in the Place, and Eudoxie and she smiled and nodded to each other like old acquaintances.”