"Can I be of any further use to you, madam, to-night."
"Oh, no, thank you; don't come into my dressing-room—Randall is very particular: she considers that her own territory. She does not like any one to come in, especially at night; but just let me look whether your fire burns," she added, entering Lettice's room.
The fire was blazing merrily; Mrs. Melwyn put her candle down upon the chimney-piece, and stood there a little while before it, looking again irresolute. It seemed as if she wished, and did not know how, to say something. Lettice stood at a short distance, respectfully expectant.
"I declare it's very cold to-night," with a little shiver.
"I did not feel it cold, but then this is so thoroughly comfortable a house."
"Do you think so? Shall you find it so? The wind comes sharply down the passages sometimes, but I wish, I hope, you won't care much for that ... or ... or ... or ... any little painful things; they can't be helped, you know, in this world."
"Ah, madam! if I may venture to say so, there is one good thing one gets out of great hardships—little things do seem so very little afterward."
"Ay, if they are really little, but—"
"Things that are ... that don't seem little to people of more gentle nurture, who have lived in a different way, seem, and are, little to those who have roughed it till they are themselves roughened. That was what I intended to say. One is so very happy to escape dreadful, real, positive distress, that all the rest is like mere play."
Mrs. Melwyn looked at her in a pensive, anxious, inquiring manner. She wanted to see if she was understood; she saw that she was. She saw something truly heartening and encouraging in the young girl's countenance. She shook hands with her and bade her good night very affectionately, and went to her own dressing-room.