Ever since the Wednesday when she had accompanied Mary and Elizabeth, at Mrs. Bradshaw’s desire, to be measured for spring clothes by the new Eccleston dress-maker, she had been looking forward to this Saturday afternoon’s pleasure of making summer trousers for Leonard; but the satisfaction of the employment was a little taken away by Leonard’s speech.  It was a sign, however, that her life was very quiet and peaceful, that she had leisure to think upon the thing at all; and often she forgot it entirely in her low, chanting song, or in listening to the thrush warbling out his afternoon ditty to his patient mate in the holly-bush below.

The distant rumble of carts through the busy streets (it was market-day) not only formed a low rolling bass to the nearer and pleasanter sounds, but enhanced the sense of peace by the suggestion of the contrast afforded to the repose of the garden by the bustle not far off.

But, besides physical din and bustle, there is mental strife and turmoil.  That afternoon, as Jemima was restlessly wandering about the house, her mother desired her to go on an errand to Mrs. Pearson’s, the new dressmaker, in order to give some directions about her sisters’ new frocks.  Jemima went, rather than have the trouble of resisting; or else she would have preferred staying at home, moving or being outwardly quiet according to her own fitful will.  Mrs. Bradshaw, who, as I have said, had been aware for some time that something was wrong with her daughter, and was very anxious to set it to rights if she only knew how, had rather planned this errand with a view to dispel Jemima’s melancholy.

“And, Mimie dear,” said her mother, “when you are there, look out for a new bonnet for yourself; she has got some very pretty ones, and your old one is so shabby.”

“It does for me, mother,” said Jemima heavily.  “I don’t want a new bonnet.”

“But I want you to have one, my lassie.  I want my girl to look well and nice.”  There was something of homely tenderness in Mrs. Bradshaw’s tone that touched Jemima’s heart.  She went to her mother, and kissed her with more of affection than she had shown to any one for weeks before; and the kiss was returned with warm fondness.

“I think you love me, mother,” said Jemima.

“We all love you, dear, if you would but think so.  And if you want anything, or wish for anything, only tell me, and with a little patience, I can get your father to give it you, I know.  Only be happy, there’s a good girl.”

“Be happy! as if one could by an effort of will!” thought Jemima as she went along the street, too absorbed in herself to notice the bows of acquaintances and friends, but instinctively guiding herself right among the throng and press of carts, and gigs, and market people in High Street.

But her mother’s tones and looks, with their comforting power, remained longer in her recollection than the inconsistency of any words spoken.  When she had completed her errand about the frocks, she asked to look at some bonnets, in order to show her recognition of her mother’s kind thought.