"You have no occasion to blame yourself, George. I do not imagine it is owing to her visit that I feel so calmed; though certainly I am happy to have her. We never had much sympathy, she and I. The difference in our age and disposition was too great. I was always fonder of Susan. No! It is not that. Her coming brought me no consolation, I am sure. I do not think I ever passed more miserable nights than those two first after her coming. But then there came a change, a peace and consolation which I cannot describe or explain, and I do not understand. It is just a blind unreasoned certainty that all is well, and I want no more. The Good God has heard me at last, and taken pity on a miserable mother. He has taken my darling to Himself, I surely believe, and she is safe at last in the Everlasting Arms. Oh George, I have been wicked to repine, and distress you as I have done, with my ignorant complainings. She is safer far, I recognize it now, than she could have been had she been left in such care as mine. No! It is the Great Consoler who has pitied me and sent me comfort; such distraction as poor Judith could have brought would have been of little avail. That little girl, Betsey's cousin, seems to bring a far more soothing influence with her than Judith or Susan, or any one I ever met, but you. There seems a peacefulness in the air when she is by, that rests my weary, hungry heart. It does me good to sit and look when she comes in, and to hear her talk. She is a darling little girl, and I could feel it in my heart to envy the people she belongs to. She is an orphan, poor thing, they tell me. She must be very near the age our Edith would have been if she had been spared to us," and the poor lady wiped her eyes and sighed.
"You mean Muriel Stanley. Yes, she is a dear little girl, or at least she was till very lately; but she is opening out into young womanhood now, as they all do, the pretty buds that I am so fond of. I see the dawning woman more clearly every week, and I shall soon be losing her. She is so pretty, you see, and those wretched boys see it, too, and tell her it. Why is there not a Herod in Montreal to kill off the sprouting striplings? They spoil all my little maids for me, just as I get fond of them, when they are at their freshest and sweetest; turn their pretty heads with nonsense and make them think themselves grown up; and then good-bye to the poor music-master. Your young nephew--Ralph's son--has something to answer for in this case, the rogue. I have noticed him lurking round our gate more than once, and have kept her an extra fifteen minutes out of pure malice. There is always some one, and they make one feel so old."
Mary smiled, as her husband meant she should, and then the door opened, and Judith and her niece appeared together. The scenes was changed into one of bustle and small talk, fumigated with the smoke of coffee and hot broiled fish.
"You were late of getting home last night," said George. "I was so blind sleepy that I could scarcely see you when I let you in. But pray don't apologize. I am glad of it. One wants to see one's country friends entertained when they come to town, and, what with my sprains, I feel conscience-stricken at having been able to do nothing to amuse you myself. I hope you spent a pleasant evening?"
"Oh, yes, Martha always does that kind of thing well. She's a good hostess."
"And, Miss Betsey? Were you much admired?"
Betsey gave her head a little toss with a Venus Victrix glance--à la Bunce, that is. The marble goddess in the Louvre looks straight out of level eyes, too proud for petty wiles; but Betsy's glance came from the corners. She was arch, you see, or thought so, and the certainty of conquest was all that she had in common with her divine prototype.
"I wore a nice new dress, Mr. Selby, a present from Aunt Martha--cousin, I suppose I should call her, seeing she is auntie's niece; but she is too old to be a cousin to me. I think I shall call her simply Martha, I am sure she will not mind. She would like it, I do believe, only----" and Betsey began to change colour.
"Only?" said George, who had been looking her in the face, with a laugh. "Only it would be awkward to be heard calling one's mother-in-law by her Christian name, and it is not easy to get out of a habit of speaking--is that it?"
Betsey grew crimson and bent over her plate.