"It never was, aunt Caxton. After I left London I had little hope of my bill. I am not disappointed."
"My dear, are you weary to-night?"
"No ma'am! not particularly."
"I shall have to find some play-work for you to do. Your voice speaks something like weariness."
"I do not feel it, aunt Caxton."
"Eleanor, have you any regret for any part of your decision and action with respect to Mr. Carlisle?"
"Never, aunt Caxton. How can you ask me?"
"I did not know but you might feel weariness now at your long stay in
Plassy and the prospect of a continued life here."
Eleanor put down her work, came to Mrs. Caxton, kneeled down and put her arms about her; kissing her with kisses that certainly carried conviction with them.
"It is the most wicked word I ever heard you say, aunt Caxton. I love Plassy beyond all places in the world, that I have ever been in. No part of my life has been so pleasant as the part spent here. If I am weary, I sometimes feel as if my life were singularly cut off from its natural duties and stranded somehow, all alone; but that is an unbelieving thought, and I do not give it harbour at all. I am very content—very happy."