“No, dear, I shall not stay behind.  Arnold doesn’t want me.  And I have always put up with you somehow—­I mean, you have put with me—­we shall manage to do it still.  We’ll live together again, as we did for so many years, in our pretty cottage and garden that dear Arnold gave us, and I will look after my poultry, and you shall do your visiting.  Yes, dear Henrietta, it will be all for the best.  We shall be so independent, so happy.”

Happy!  It was not a word in Miss Gascoigne’s dictionary.  But she looked with a certain tenderness at the fond little woman who had loved her, borne with her, never in the smallest degree resisted her since they were girls together.  It was a strange tie, perhaps finding its origin in something deeper than itself—­in that dead captain, whose old-fashioned miniature still lay in poor Maria’s drawer—­the fierce, handsome face, proving that, had he lived, he might have been as great a tyrant over her as his sister Henrietta.  Still, however it arose, the bond was there, and nothing but death could ever break it between these two lonely women.

“Come, then, Maria, we shall share our last crust together.  You, at least, have never wronged me.  Come away.”

Gathering her dress about her with a tragical air, and plucking it, as she passed Mrs. Grey, as though the possible touch were pollution, Aunt Henrietta swept from the room; Aunt Maria, after one deprecatory look behind, as if to say, “You see I can’t do otherwise,” slowly following.

And so it was all over—­safely over—­this great change, which, however longed for, had not been contemplated as a possibility one hour before.  It had arranged itself out of the most trivial elements, as great events often do.  There could be no question that every body felt it to be the best thing, and every body was thankful; and yet Christian watched her husband with a little uncertainty until she heard him heave a sigh of relief.

“Yes, I am sure it was right to be done, and I am glad it is done.  Are not you, Christian?”

“Oh, so glad!  I hope it is not wicked in me, but I am so glad!”

“Why—­to have me all to yourself?” said he, smiling at her energy.

A strange, unwonted thrill ran through Christian’s heart as she recognized, beyond possibility of doubt, that this was the secret source of her delight—­of the feeling as if a new existence were opening before her—­as if the heavy weight which had oppressed her were taken off, and she could move through those old gloomy rooms, which had once struck a chill through her whole being, with a sense as if she were as light as air, and as merry as a bird in the spring.

To have the Lodge made into a real home—­a home altogether her own—­ and emptied of all but those who were really her own, with a glad welcome for any visitors, but still only as visitors, coming and going, and never permanently interfering with the sweet, narrow circle of the family fireside; to be really mistress in her own house; to have her time to herself; to spend long mornings with the children; long evenings alone with her husband, even if he sat for hours poring over his big books and did not speak a word—­oh, how delicious it would be!