‘She was very nice and sisterly,’ I confessed.  ’She has more in her than I ever thought.  Poor little thing!  I am afraid she is very unhappy, only she hides it so.’

’Just so.  That shows her good sense:  the world is very intolerant of a protracted grief; its victims must learn to dry their eyes quickly.’

Uncle Max was becoming philosophical:  this would never do.

‘Never mind about Lesbia,’ I observed impatiently, ’we can talk about her in the next room; what I want to know is, how soon I may come to Heathfield.’  For I knew how dilatory men can be about other people’s business, and I fully expected that Uncle Max would put me off to the summer.

‘You may come as soon as you like,’ he returned, rather too carelessly.  ‘Shall we say next week, or will that be too early?’

I suppressed my astonishment cleverly, but was down on him in a moment.

‘I should like to have some place found for me first,’ I remarked sententiously; ’you must take lodgings for me first, and then I can settle my plans.’

‘Oh, that is done already,’ he observed cheerfully.  ’I have spoken to Mrs. Barton about you, and she has very nice rooms vacant.  I wanted them for Tudor, until I mooted the vicarage plan.  It is a tidy little place, Ursula, and I think you will be very comfortable there.’

I felt that Uncle Max deserved praise, and I gave it to him without stint or limit; he took it nobly, like a man who feels he has earned his reward.

‘I fancy I have done a neat thing,’ he said modestly.

’Directly I read your letter and saw that you were in earnest, I went down to Mrs. Barton and had a long talk with her.  Do you remember the White Cottage, Ursula, that stands just where the road dips a little, after you have passed the vicarage?  It is on the main road that leads to the common:  there is a field, and one or two houses, and on the right the road branches off to Main Street, where my poorer parishioners live.  Oh, I see that you have forgotten.  Well, there is a low white cottage, standing far back from the road, with rather a pretty garden, and a field at the back:  people call it the White Cottage; though it is smothered in jasmine in the summer; and there is a nice little parlour with a bedroom over it.  That will do capitally, I fancy.  Old Mrs. Meredith lived there until her death, and she left her furniture to Mrs. Barton.’

I expressed myself as being well pleased at this description, and then inquired a little anxiously if there were room for my piano and my books.

’Oh yes, it is quite a good-sized room; that is why I wanted it for Tudor.  You will not mind it being a little low:  it is only a cottage, remember.  There is a nice easy couch, I spotted that at once, and a capital easy-chair, and some corner cupboards that will, hold a store of good things; you can make it as pretty as possible.’

‘And Mrs. Barton, Max,—­is she a pleasant person?’